Peter's Mother eBook (2024)

Peter's Mother

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Table of Contents
Section	Page
Start of eBook	1
Title: Peter’s Mother	1
PETER’S MOTHER	1
WITH INTRODUCTION	1
MRS. HENRY DE LA PASTURE	1
TO THE BELOVED MEMORY OF MY ONLY BROTHER	1
TO MY AMERICAN READERS	1
PETER’S MOTHER	3
CHAPTER I	3
CHAPTER II	6
CHAPTER III	13
CHAPTER IV	21
CHAPTER V	27
CHAPTER VI	33
CHAPTER VII	39
CHAPTER VIII	45
CHAPTER IX	51
CHAPTER X	61
CHAPTER XI	70
CHAPTER XII	76
CHAPTER XIII	85
CHAPTER XIV	92
CHAPTER XV	103
CHAPTER XVI	110
CHAPTER XVII	116
CHAPTER XVIII	125
CHAPTER XIX	132
CHAPTER XX	137
CHAPTER XXI	145
THE END	151

Title: Peter’s Mother

Author: Mrs. Henry De La Pasture

Release Date: December 14, 2003 [EBook #10452]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** Start of this project gutenbergEBOOK Peter’s mother ***

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PETER’S MOTHER

NEW EDITION

WITH INTRODUCTION

BY

MRS. HENRY DE LA PASTURE

1906

And I left my youth behind
For somebody else to find.

TO THE BELOVED MEMORY OF MY ONLY BROTHER

LT. Colonel Walter Floyd Bonham,D.S.O.

TO MY AMERICAN READERS

The author of “Peter’s Mother” hasbeen bidden of the publishers, who have incurred theresponsibility of presenting her to the American public,to write a preface to this edition of her novel.She does so with the more diffidence because it hasbeen impressed upon her, by more than one wiseacre,that her novels treat of a life too narrow, an atmospheretoo circ*mscribed, to be understood or appreciatedby American readers.

No one can please everybody; I suppose that no one,except the old man in Aesop’s Fable, ever triedto do so. But I venture to believe that to someAmericans, a sincere and truthful portrait of a typicalEnglishwoman of a certain class may prove attractive,as to us are the studies of a “David Harum,”or others whose characteristics interest because—­andnot in spite of—­their strangeness and unfamiliarity.We do not recognise the type; but as those who dohave acknowledged the accuracy of the representation,we read, learn, and enjoy making acquaintance withan individuality and surroundings foreign to our ownexperience.

There are hundreds of Englishwomen living lives asisolated, as guarded from all practical knowledgeof the outer world, as entirely circ*mscribed as thelife of Lady Mary Crewys; though they are not allunhappy. On the contrary, many diffuse contentand kindness all around them, and take it for grantedthat their own personal wishes are of no account.

Indeed it would seem that some cease to be aware whattheir own personal wishes are.

With anxious eyes fixed on others—­the husband,father, sons, who dominate them,—­they liveto please, to serve, to nurse, and to console; reveredcertainly as queens of their tiny kingdoms, but alsohelpless as prisoners.

Calm, as fixed stars, they regard (perhaps sometimesa little wistfully) the orbits of brighter planets,and the flashing of occasional meteors, within theirken; knowing that their own place is unchangeable—­immutable.

That the views of such women are often narrow, theirprejudices many, their conventions tiresome, who shalldeny? That their souls are pure and tender, theirhearts open to kindness as are their hands to charity,nobody who knows the type will dispute. They lackmany advantages which their more independent sisters(no less gifted with noble and womanly qualities)enjoy, but they possess a peculiar gentleness, whichis all their own, whether it be adored or despised.

When one of their number happens to be cleverer, largerminded, more restless, and impatient, it may be, bynature than her sisters, tragedy may ensue. Butnot often. Habit and public opinion are strongrestrainers, stronger sometimes than even the mostcarefully inculcated abstract principles.

To turn to another phase of the story—­therewas a time during the Boer War when there was literallyscarcely a woman in England who was not mourning thedeath of some man—­be he son, brother, orhusband, lover or friend,—­and that timeseems still very, very recent to some of us.

The rights and wrongs of a war have nothing to dowith the sympathy all civilised men and women extendto the soldiers on both sides who take part in it.

“Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do or die,”

and whether they “do or die,” the mingledsuspense, pride, and anguish suffered by their women-kindrouses the pity of the world; but most of all, forthe secret of sympathy is understanding, the pity ofthose who have suffered likewise. So that suchescapades as Peter’s in the story, being notvery uncommon at that dark period (and having itsfoundation in fact), may have touched hearts over here,which will be unmoved on the other side of the Atlantic.I cannot tell. I have known very few Americans,and though I have counted those few among my friends,they have been rarely met.

My only knowledge of America has been gleaned frommy observation of these, and from reading. Asit happens, the favourite books of my childhood were,with few exceptions, American.

Partly from association and partly because I countit the most truly delightful story of its kind thatever was written, “Little Women” has alwaysretained its early place in my affections. “Meg,”“Jo,” “Beth,” and “Amy”are my oldest and dearest friends; and when I thinkof them, it is hard to believe that America couldbe a land of strangers to me after all. I confessto a weakness for the “Wide, Wide World”and a secret passion for “Queechy.”I loved “Mr. Rutherford’s Children,”and was always interested to hear “What KatyDid,” Whilst the very thought of “MelbourneHouse” thrills me with recollections of the joyI experienced therein.

But this is all by the way; and for the egotism whichis, I fear me, displayed in this foreword, I can butplead, not only the difficulty of writing a prefaceat all, when one has no personal inclination thatway, but the nervousness which must beset a writerwho is directly addressing not a tried and friendlypublic, but an unknown, and, it may be, less easilypleased and more critical audience. It appearsto me that it would be a simpler thing to write anotherbook; and I would rather do so. I can only hopethat some of the readers of “Peter’s Mother,”if she is so happy as to find favour in American eyes,would rather I did so too; in I which case I shallvery joyfully try to gratify their wishes, and myown.

Betty de La pasture.

PETER’S MOTHER

CHAPTER I

Above Youlestone village, overlooking the valley andthe river, and the square-towered church, stood BarracombeHouse, backed by Barracombe Woods, and owned by SirTimothy Crewys, of Barracombe.

From the terrace before his windows Sir Timothy couldtake a bird’s-eye view of his own property,up the river and down the river; while he also hadthe felicity of beholding the estate of his most importantneighbour, Colonel Hewel, of Hewelscourt, mapped outbefore his eyes, as plainly visible in detail as landon the opposite side of a narrow valley must alwaysbe.

He cast no envious glances at his neighbour’sproperty. The Youle was a boundary which nonecould dispute, and which could only be convenientlycrossed by the ferry, for the nearest bridge was sevenmiles distant, at Brawnton, the old post-town.

From Brawnton the coach still ran once a week forthe benefit of the outlying villages, and the singleline of rail which threaded the valley of the Youlein the year 1900 was still a novelty to the inhabitantsof this unfrequented part of Devon.

Sir Timothy sometimes expressed a majestic pity forColonel Hewel, because the railway ran through someof his neighbour’s best fields; and also becauseHewelscourt was on the wrong side of the river—­faceddue north—­and was almost buried in timber.But Colonel Hewel was perfectly satisfied with hisown situation, though sorry for Sir Timothy, who livedwithin full view of the railway, but was obliged todrive many miles round by Brawnton Bridge in orderto reach the station.

The two gentlemen seldom met. They lived in differentparishes, and administered justice in different directions.Sir Timothy’s dignity did not permit him tomake use of the ferry, and he rarely drove furtherthan Brawnton, or rode much beyond the boundaries ofhis own estate. He cared only for farming, whilstColonel Hewel was devoted to sport.

The Crewys family had been Squires of Barracombe,cultivating their own lands and living upon them contentedly,for centuries before the Hewels had ever been heardof in Devon, as all the village knew very well; whereforethey regarded the Hewels with a mixture of good-naturedcontempt and kindly tolerance. The contempt wasbecause Hewelscourt had been built within the memoryof living man, and only two generations of Hewelsborn therein; the tolerance because the present owner,though not a wealthy man, was as liberal in his dealingsas their squire was the reverse.

* * * * *

In the reign of Charles I., one Peter Crewys, an adventurousyounger son of this obscure but ancient Devonshirefamily, had gained local notoriety by raising a troopof enthusiastic yeomen for his Majesty’s service;subsequently his own reckless personal gallantry wonwider recognition in many an affray with the parliamentarytroops; and on the death of his royal master, PeterCrewys was forced to fly the country. He joinedKing Charles II. in his exile, whilst his prudentelder brother severed all connection with him, denouncedhim as a swashbuckler, and made his own peace withthe Commonwealth.

The Restoration, however, caused Farmer Timothy towelcome his relative home in the warmest manner, andthe brothers were not only reconciled in their oldage, but the elder made haste to transfer the ownershipof Barracombe to the younger, in terror lest his owndisloyalty should be rewarded by confiscation of thefamily acres.

A careless but not ungrateful monarch, rejoicing doubtlessto see his faithful soldier and servant so well providedfor, bestowed on him a baronetcy, a portrait by Vandyckof the late king, his father, and the promise of ahandsome sum of money, for the payment of which thenew baronet forebore to press his royal patron.His services thus recognized and rewarded, old SirPeter Crewys settled down amicably with his brotherat Barracombe.

Presumably there had always been an excellent understandingbetween them. In any case no question of dividedinterests ever arose.

Sir Peter enlarged the old Elizabethan homestead tosuit his new dignity; built a picture-gallery, whichhe stocked handsomely with family portraits; designedterrace gardens on the hillside after a fashion hehad learnt in Italy, and adopted his eldest nephewas his heir.

Old Timothy meanwhile continued to cultivate the landundisturbed, disdaining newfangled ideas of gentility,and adhering in all ways to the customs of his father.Presently, soldier and farmer also passed away, andwere laid to rest side by side on the banks of theYoule, in the shadow of the square-towered church.

Before the house rolled rich meadows, open spacesof cornland, and low-lying orchards. The buildingitself stood out boldly on a shelf of the hill; successivegenerations of the Crewys family had improved or enlargedit with more attention to convenience than to architecture.The older portion was overshadowed by an imposing southfront of white stone, shaded in summer by a prolificvine, which gave it a foreign appearance, furtherenhanced by rows of green shutters. It was screenedfrom the north by the hill, and from the east by adense wood. Myrtles, hydrangeas, magnolias, andorange-trees nourished out-of-doors upon the shelteredterraces cut in the red sandstone.

The woods of Barracombe stretched upwards to the skylineof the ridge behind the house, and were intersectedby winding paths, bordered by hardy fuchsias and delicateferns. A rushing stream dropped from height toheight on its rocky course, and ended picturesquelyand usefully in a waterfall close to the village,where it turned an old mill-wheel before disappearinginto the Youle.

If the Squire of Barracombe overlooked from his terracegarden the inhabitants of the village and the tell-taledoorway of the much-frequented inn on the high-roadbelow—­his tenants in the valley and onthe hillside were privileged in turn to observe thegoings-in and comings-out of their beloved landlordalmost as intimately; nor did they often tire of discussinghis movements, his doings, and even his intentions.

His monotonous life provided small cause for gossipor speculation; but when the opportunity arose, itwas eagerly seized.

In the failing light of a February afternoon a groupof labourers assembled before the hospitably opendoor of the Crewys Arms.

“Him baint been London ways vor uppard of vivdeenyear, tu my zurtain knowledge,” said the oldroad-mender, jerking his empty pewter upwards in thedirection of the terrace, where Sir Timothy’ssolid dark form could be discerned pacing up and downbefore his white house.

“Tis vur a ligacy. You may depend on’t.’Twas vur a ligacy last time,” said abrawny ploughman.

“Volk doan’t git ligacies every day,”said the road-mender, contemptuously. “Izays ’tis Master Peter. Him du be just theage when byes du git drubblezum, gentle are zimple.I were drubblezum myself as a bye.”

“’Twas tu fetch down this ‘ere Londonjintle-man as comed on here wi’ him to-day,I tell ’ee. His cousin, are zuch like.Zame name, anyways, var James Coachman zaid zo.”

“Well, I telled ’ee zo,” said theroad-mender. “He’s brart down thenextest heir, var tu keep a hold over Master Peter,and I doan’t blame ’un.”

“James Coachman telled me vive minutes zinceas zummat were up. ’Ee zad such ardersvar tu-morrer morning, ’ee says, as niver ’eehad befar,” said the landlord.

“Thart James Coachman weren’t niver littu come here,” said the road-mender, slyly.His toothless mouth extended into the perpetual smilewhich had earned him the nickname of “Happy Jack,”over sixty years since, when he had been the prettiestlad in the parish.

“He only snicked down vor a drop o’ brandy,vur he were clean rampin’ mazed wi’ tuth-ache.He waited till pretty nigh dusk var the ole ladiestu be zafe. ’Ee says they du take it byturns zo long as daylight du last, tu spy out wi’their microscopes, are zum zuch, as none of Sir Timothy’svolk git tarking down this ways. A drop o’my zider might git tu their ’yeds,” saidthe landlord, sarcastically, “though they drinksSir Timothy’s by the bucket-vull up tu Barracombe.”

“’Tis stronger than yars du be,”said Happy Jack. “There baint no warterput tu’t, Joe Gudewyn. The warter-varl betu handy vur yure brewin’.”

“Zum of my customers has weak ’yeds, ’tisarl the better for they,” said Goodwyn, calmly.

“Then charge ’em accardin’, Mr.Landlord, charge ’em accardin’, zays I.Warter doan’t cost ’ee nart, du ’un?”said Happy Jack, triumphantly.

“‘Ere be the doctor goin’ on in’strap, while yu du be tarking zo,” said the ploughman.“Lard, he du be a vast goer, be Joe Blundell.”

“I drove zo vast as that, and vaster, when Ikip a harse,” said the road-mender, jealously.“’Ee be a young man, not turned vifty.I mind his vather and mother down tu Cullacott befarthey was wed. Why doan’t he go tu the war,that’s what I zay?”

“Sir Timothy doan’t hold wi’ thewar,” said the landlord.

“Mar shame vor ’un,” said HappyJack. “But me and Zur Timothy, us madeup our minds tu differ long ago. I’m arlvor vighting vurriners—­Turks, Rooshans,Vrinchmen; ’tis arl one tu I.”

“Why doan’t ’ee volunteer thyself,Vather Jack? Thee baint turned nointy yit, be’ee?” said a labourer, winking heavily,to convey to the audience that the suggestion wasa humorous one.

“Ah, zo I wude, and shute Boers wi’ thebest on ’un. But the Governmint baint gotthe zince tu ax me,” said Happy Jack, chuckling.“The young volk baint nigh zo knowing as I dube. Old Kruger wuden’t ha’ tuke inI, try as ’un wude. I be zo witty as iverI can be.”

Dr. Blundell saluted the group before the inn as heturned his horse to climb the steep road to Barracombe.

No breath of wind stirred, and the smoke from thecottage chimneys was lying low in the valley, hoveringover the river in the still air.

A few primroses peeped out of sheltered corners underthe hedge, and held out a timid promise of spring.The doctor followed the red road which wound betweenSir Timothy’s carefully enclosed plantationsof young larch, passed the lodge gates, which werebadly in need of repair, and entered the drive.

CHAPTER II

The justice-room was a small apartment in the olderportion of Barracombe House; the low windows wereheavily latticed, and faced west.

Sir Timothy sat before his writing-table, which washeaped with papers, directories, and maps; but hecould no longer see to read or write. He madea stiff pretence of rising to greet the doctor as heentered, and then resumed his elbow-chair.

The rapidly failing daylight showed a large elderly,rather pompous gentleman, with a bald head, grizzledwhiskers, and heavy plebeian features.

His face was smooth and unwrinkled, as the faces ofprosperous and self-satisfied persons sometimes are,even after sixty, which was the age Sir Timothy hadattained.

Dr. Blundell, who sat opposite his patient, was neitherprosperous nor self-satisfied.

His dark clean-shaven face was deeply lined; careor over-work had furrowed his brow; and the ratherunkempt locks of black hair which fell over it werestreaked with white. From the deep-set brown eyeslooked sadness and fatigue, as well as a great kindnessfor his fellow-men.

“I came the moment I received your letter,”he said. “I had no idea you were back fromLondon already.”

“Dr. Blundell,” said Sir Timothy, pompously,“when I took the very unusual step of leavinghome the day before yesterday, I had resolved to followthe advice you gave me. I went to fulfil an appointmentI had made with a specialist.”

“With Sir James Power?”

“No, with a man named Herslett. You mayhave heard of him.”

“Heard of him!” ejacul*ted Blundell.“Why, he’s world-famous! A new man.Very clever, of course. If anything, a greaterauthority. Only I fancied you would perhaps preferan older, graver man.”

“No doubt I committed a breach of medical etiquette,”said Sir Timothy, in self-satisfied tones. “ButI fancied you might have written your versionof the case to Power. Ah, you did? Exactly.But I was determined to have an absolutely unbiassedopinion.”

“Well,” said Blundell, gently.

“Well—­I got it, that’s all,”said Sir Timothy. The triumph seemed to die outof his voice.

“Was it—­unsatisfactory?”

“Not from your point of view,” said thesquire, with a heavy jocularity which did not movethe doctor to mirth. “I’m bound tosay he confirmed your opinion exactly. But hetook a far more serious view of my case than you do.”

“Did he?” said Blundell, turning awayhis head.

“The operation you suggested as a possible necessitymust be immediate. He spoke of it quite franklyas the only possible chance of saving my life, whichis further endangered by every hour of delay.”

“Fortunately,” said Blundell, cheerfully,“you have a fine constitution, and you havelived a healthy abstemious life. That is allin your favour.”

“I am over sixty years of age,” said SirTimothy, coldly, “and the ordeal before me isa very severe one, as you must be well aware.I must take the risk of course, but the less saidabout the matter the better.”

Dr. Blundell had always regarded Sir Timothy Crewysas a commonplace contradictory gentleman, beset byprejudices which belonged properly to an earlier generation,and of singularly narrow sympathies and interests.He believed him to be an upright man according to hislights, which were not perhaps very brilliant lightsafter all; but he knew him to be one whom few peoplefound it possible to like, partly on account of hisarrogance, which was excessive; and partly on accountof his want of consideration for the feelings of others,which arose from lack of perception.

People are disliked more often for a bad manner thanfor a bad heart. The one is their private possession—­theother they obtrude on their acquaintance.

Sir Timothy’s heart was not bad, and he caredless for being liked than for being respected.He was the offspring of a mesalliance; andgreatly over-estimating the importance in which hisfamily was held, he imagined he would be looked downupon for this mischance, unless he kept people ata distance and in awe of him. The idea was a foolishone, no doubt, but then Sir Timothy was not a wiseman; on the contrary, his lifelong determination tokeep himself loftily apart from his fellow-men hadresulted in an almost extraordinary ignorance of theworld he lived in—­a world which Sir Timothyregarded as a wild and misty place, peopled largelyand unnecessarily with savages and foreigners, andchiefly remarkable for containing England; as Englandjustified its existence by holding Devonshire, andmore especially Barracombe.

Sir Timothy had never been sent to school, and owedsuch education as he possessed almost entirely tohis half-sisters. These ladies were considerablyhis seniors, and had in turn been brought up at Barracombeby their grandmother; whose maxims they still quoted,and whose ideas they had scarcely outgrown. Underthe circ*mstances, the narrowness of his outlook wasperhaps hardly to be wondered at.

But the dull immovability and sense of importancewhich characterized him now seemed to the doctor tobe almost tragically charged with the typical matter-of-factcourage of the Englishman; who displays neither fearnor emotion; and who would regard with horror the suspicionthat such repression might be heroic.

“When is it to be?” said Blundell.

“To-morrow.”

“To-morrow!”

“And here,” said Sir Timothy; “Dr.Herslett objected, but I insisted. I won’tbe ill in a strange house. I shall recover farmore rapidly—­if I am to recover—­amongmy people, in my native air. London stifles me.I dislike crowds and noise. I hate novelty.If I am to die, I will die at home.”

“Herslett himself performs the operation, ofcourse?”

“Yes. He is to arrive at Brawnton to-night,and sleep there. I shall send the carriage overfor him and his assistants early to-morrow morning.You, of course, will meet him here, and the operationis to take place at eleven o’clock.”

In his alarm lest the doctor might be moved to expresssympathy, Sir
Timothy spoke with unusual severity.

Dr. Blundell understood, and was silent.

“I sent for you, of course, to let you knowall this,” said Sir
Timothy, “but I wished, also, to introduce youto my cousin, John
Crewys, who came down with me.”

“The Q.C.?”

“Exactly. I have made him my executor andtrustee, and guardian of my son.”

“Jointly with Lady Mary, I presume?” saidthe doctor, unguardedly.

“Certainly not,” said Sir Timothy, stiffly.“Lady Mary has never been troubled with businessmatters. That is why I urged John to come downwith me. In case—­anything—­happensto-morrow, his support will be invaluable to her.I have a high opinion of him. He has succeededin life through his own energy, and he is the onlymember of my family who has never applied to me forassistance. I inquired the reason on the journeydown, for I know that at one time he was in very poorcirc*mstances; and he replied that he would ratherhave starved than have asked me for sixpence.I call that a very proper spirit.”

The doctor made no comment on the anecdote. “MayI ask how Lady Mary is bearing this suspense?”he asked.

“Lady Mary knows nothing of the matter,”said the squire, rather peevishly.

“You have not prepared her?”

“No; and I particularly desire she and my sistersshould hear nothing of it. If this is to be mylast evening on earth, I should not wish it to beclouded by tears and lamentations, which might makeit difficult for me to maintain my own self-command.Herslett said I was not to be agitated. I shallbid them all good night just as usual. In themorning I beg you will be good enough to make the necessaryexplanations. Lady Mary need hear nothing of ittill it is over, for you know she never leaves herroom before twelve—­a habit I have oftendeplored, but which is highly convenient on this occasion.”

Dr. Blundell reflected for a moment. “MayI venture to remonstrate with you, Sir Timothy?”he said. “I fear Lady Mary may be deeplyshocked and hurt at being thus excluded from your confidencein so serious a case. Should anything go wrong,”he added bluntly, “it would be difficult toaccount to her even for my own reticence.”

Sir Timothy rose majestic from his chair. “Youwill say that I forbade you to make the communication,”he said, with rather a displeased air.

“I beg your pardon,” said Dr. Blundell,“but—­”

“I am not offended,” interrupted Sir Timothy,mistaking remonstrance for apology. He was quitehonestly incapable of supposing that his physicianwould presume to argue with him.

“You do not, very naturally, understand LadyMary’s disposition as well as I do,” hesaid, almost graciously. “She has been shelteredfrom anxiety, from trouble of every kind, since herchildhood. To me, more than a quarter of a centuryher senior, she seems, indeed, still almost a child.”

Dr. Blundell coloured. “Yet she is themother of a grown-up son,” he said.

“Peter grown-up! Nonsense! A schoolboy.”

“Eighteen,” said the doctor, shortly.“You don’t wish him sent for?”

“Most certainly not. The Christmas holidaysare only just over. Rest assured, Dr. Blundell,”said Sir Timothy, with grim emphasis, “that Ishall give Peter no excuse for leaving his work, ifI can help it.”

There was a tap at the door. The squire loweredhis voice and spoke hurriedly.

“If it is the canon, tell him, in confidence,what I have told you, and say that I should wish himto be present to-morrow, in his official capacity,in case of—­”

It was the canon, whose rosy good-humoured countenanceappeared in the doorway whilst Sir Timothy was yetspeaking.

“I hope I am not interrupting,” he said,“but the ladies desired me—­that is,Lady Belstone and Miss Crewys desired me—­tolet you know that tea was ready.”

The canon had an innocent surprised face like a baby;he was constitutionally timid and amiable, and hisdislike of argument, or of a loud voice, almost amountedto fear.

Sir Timothy mistook his nervousness for proper respect,and maintained a distant but condescending graciousnesstowards him.

“I hear you came back by the afternoon train,Sir Timothy. A London outing is a rare thingfor you. I hope you enjoyed yourself,” saidthe canon, with a meaningless laugh.

“I transacted my business successfully, thankyou,” said Sir Timothy, gravely.

“Brought back any fresh news of the war?”

“None at all.”

“I hear the call for more men has been respondedto all over the country. It’s a fine thing,so many young fellows ready and willing to lay downtheir lives for their country.”

“Very few young men, I believe,” saidSir Timothy, frigidly, “can resist any opportunityto be concerned in brawling and bloodshed, especiallywhen it is legalized under the name of war. Myrespect is reserved for the steady workers at home.”

“And how much peace would the steady workersat home enjoy without the brawlers abroad to defendthem, I wonder!” cried the canon, flushing allover his rosy face, and then suddenly faltering ashe met the cold surprise of the squire’s greyeyes.

“I have some letters to finish before post time,”said Sir Timothy, after an impressive short pauseof displeasure. “I will join you presently,Dr. Blundell, at the tea-table, if you will returnto the ladies with Canon Birch.”

Sir Timothy rang for lights, and his visitors closedthe door of the study behind them. Dr. Blundell’sbackward glance showed him the tall and portly formsilhouetted against the window; the last gleam ofdaylight illuminating the iron-grey hair; the faceturned towards the hilltop, where the spires of theskeleton larches were sharply outlined against a clearwestern sky.

“What made you harp upon the war, man, knowingwhat his opinions are?” the doctor asked vexedly,as he stumbled along the uneven stone passage towardsthe hall.

“I did not exactly intend to do so; but I declare,the moment I see Sir Timothy, every subject I wishto avoid seems to fly to the tip of my tongue,”said the poor canon, apologetically; “thoughI had a reason for alluding to the war to-night—­agood reason, as I think you will acknowledge presently.I want your advice, doctor.”

“Not for yourself, I hope,” said the doctor,absently.

“Come into the gun-room for one moment,”said Birch. “It is very important.Do you know I’ve a letter from Peter?”

“From Peter! Why should you havea letter from Peter?” said the doctor, and hisuninterested tone became alert.

“I’m sure I don’t know why not.I was always fond of Peter,” said the canon,humbly. “Will you cast your eye over it?You see, it’s written from Eton, and postedtwo days later in London.”

Dr. Blundell read the letter, which was written ina schoolboy hand, and not guiltless of mistakes inspelling.

“DEAR CANON BIRCH,

“As my father wouldn’t hear of my goingout to South Africa, I’ve taken the law intomy own hands. I wrote to my mother’s cousin,Lord Ferries, to ask him to include me in his yeomanrycorps. Of course I let him suppose papa was willingand anxious, which perhaps was a low-down game, butI remembered that all’s fair in love and war;and besides, I consider papa very nearly a pro-Boer.We’ve orders to sail on Friday, which is sharpwork; but I should be eternally disgraced now if theystopped me. As my father never listens to reason,far less to me, you had better explain to him thatif he’s any regard for the honour of our name,he’s no choice left. I expect my motherhad better not be told till I’m gone, or shewill only fret over what can’t be helped.I’ll write to her on board, once we’resafely started. I know you’re all rightabout the war, so you can tell papa I was ashamed tobe playing football while fellows younger than me,and fellows who can’t shoot or ride as I can,are going off to South Africa every day.

“Yours affectionately,

“PETER CREWYS.

“P.S.—­Hope you won’tmind this job. I did try to get papa’s leavefair and square first.”

“I always said Peter was a fine fellow at bottom,”said Canon Birch, anxiously scanning the doctor’sfrowning face.

“He’s an infernal self-willed, obstinate,heartless young cub on top, then,” said Blundell.

“He’s a chip of the old block, no doubt,”said the canon; “but still”—­hisadmiration of Peter’s boldness was perceptiblein his voice—­“he doesn’t sharehis father’s reprehensible opinions on the subjectof the war.”

“Sons generally begin life by differing fromtheir fathers, and end by imitating them,” saidBlundell, sharply. “Birch, we must stophim.”

“I don’t see how,” said the canon;and he indulged in a gentle chuckle. “Theyoung rascal has laid his plans too well. He sailsto-morrow. I telegraphed inquiries. Ferries’Horse are going by the Rosmore Castle to-morrowmorning at eleven o’clock.”

Dr. Blundell made an involuntary movement, which thecanon did not perceive.

“I don’t relish the notion of breakingthis news to Sir Timothy. But I thought we couldconsult together, you and me, how to do it,”said the innocent gentleman. “There’sno doubt, you know, that it must be done at once,or he can’t get to Southampton in time to seethe boy off and forgive him. I suppose even SirTimothy will forgive him at such a moment. Godbless the lad!”

Dr. Blundell uttered an exclamation that did not soundlike a blessing.

“Look here, Birch,” he said, “thisis no time to mince matters. If the boy can’tbe stopped—­and under the circ*mstances he’sgot us on toast—­he can’t cry offactive service—­as the boy can’tbe stopped, you must just keep this news to yourself.”

“But I must tell Sir Timothy!”

“You must not tell Sir Timothy.”

“Though all my sympathies are with the boy—­forI’m a patriot first, and a parson afterwards—­Godforgive me for saying so,” said Birch, in atrembling voice, “yet I can’t take theresponsibility of keeping Peter’s father inignorance of his action. I see exactly what youmean, of course. Sir Timothy will make unpleasantness,and very likely telegraph to his commanding officer,and disgrace the poor boy before his comrades; andshout at me, a thing I can’t bear; and you kindlythink to spare me—­and Peter. But Ican’t take the responsibility of keeping itdark, for all that,” said the canon, shakinghis head regretfully.

“I take the responsibility,” saidthe doctor, shortly. “As Sir Timothy’sphysician, I forbid you to tell him.”

“Is Sir Timothy ill?” The canon’slight eyes grew rounder with alarm.

“He is to undergo a dangerous operation to-morrowmorning.”

“God bless my soul!”

“He desires this evening—­possiblyhis last on earth—­to be a calm and uncloudedone,” said the doctor. “Respect hiswishes, Birch, as you would respect the wishes ofa dying man.”

“Do you mean he won’t get over it?”said the canon, in a horrified whisper.

“You always want the t’s crossedand the i’s dotted,” said Blundell,impatiently. “Of course there is a chance—­hisonly chance. He’s a d——­dplucky old fellow. I never thought to like SirTimothy half so well as I do at this moment.”

“I hope I don’t dislike any man,”faltered the canon. “But—­”

“Exactly,” said the doctor, dryly.

“But what shall I do with Peter’s letter?”said the unhappy recipient.

“Not one word to Sir Timothy. Agitationor distress of mind at such a moment would be theworst thing in the world for him.”

“But I can’t let Peter sail without aword to his people. And his mother. GoodGod, Blundell! Is Lady Mary to lose husband andson in one day?”

“Lady Mary,” said the doctor, bitterly,“is to be treated, as usual, like a child, andtold nothing of her husband’s danger till it’sover. As for Peter—­well, devoted motheras she is, she must be pretty well accustomed by thistime to the captious indifference of her spoilt boy.She won’t be surprised, though she may be hurt,that he should coolly propose to set off without biddingher good-bye.”

“Couldn’t we tell her in confidence aboutPeter?” said the canon, struck with a brilliantidea.

“Certainly not; she would fly to him at once,and leave Sir Timothy alone in his extremity.”

“Couldn’t we tell her in confidence aboutSir Timothy?”

“I have allowed Sir Timothy to understand thatneither you nor I will betray his secret.”

“I’m no hand at keeping a secret,”said the canon, unhappily.

“Nonsense, canon, nonsense,” said Dr.Blundell, laying a friendly hand on his shoulder.“No man in your profession, or in mine, oughtto be able to say that. Pull yourself together,hope for the best, and play your part.”

CHAPTER III

John Crewys looked round the hall at Barracombe Housewith curious, interested eyes.

It was divided from the outer vestibule on the westernside of the building by a massive partition of darkoak, and it retained the solid beams and panelledwalls of Elizabethan days; but the oak had been barbarouslypainted, grained and varnished. Only the staircasewas so heavily and richly carved, that it had defiedthe ingenuity of the comb engraver. It occupiedthe further end of the hall, opposite the entrancedoor, and was lighted dimly by a small heavily leaded,stained-glass window. The floor was likewise black,polished with age and the labour of generations.A deeply sunken nail-studded door led into a low-ceiledlibrary, containing a finely carved frieze and cornice,and an oak mantelpiece, which John Crewys earnestlydesired to examine more closely; the shield-of-armsabove it bore the figures of 1603, but the hall itselfwas of an earlier date.

Parallel to it was the suite of lofty, modern, green-shutteredreception-rooms, which occupied the south front ofthe house, and into which an opening had been cutthrough the massive wall next the chimney.

The character of the hall was, however, completelydestroyed by the decoration which had been bestowedupon it, and by the furniture and pictures which filledit.

John Crewys looked round with more indignation thanadmiration at the home of his ancestors.

In the great oriel window stood a round mahogany table,bearing a bouquet of wax flowers under a glass shade.Cases of stuffed birds ornamented every availablerecess; mahogany and horsehair chairs were set stifflyround the walls at even distances. A heap of foldedmoth-eaten rugs and wraps disfigured a side-table,and beneath it stood a row of clogs and goloshes.

Round the walls hung full-length portraits of an earlyVictorian date. The artist had spent a coupleof months at Barracombe fifty years since, and hadpainted three generations of the Crewys family, whowere then gathered together beneath its hospitableroof. His diligence had been more remarkablethan his ability. At any other time John Crewyswould have laughed outright at this collection of worksof art.

But the air was charged with tragedy, and he couldnot laugh. His seriousness commended him favourably,had he known it, to the two old ladies, his cousins,Sir Timothy’s half-sisters, who were seatedbeside the great log fire, and who regarded him withapproving eyes. For their stranger cousin hadthat extreme gentleness and courtesy of manner andregard, which sometimes accompanies unusual strength,whether of character or of person.

It was a pity, old Lady Belstone whispered to herspinster sister, that John was not a Crewys, for hehad a remarkably fine head, and had he been but alittle taller and slimmer, would have been a creditto the family.

Certainly John was not a Crewys. He possessedneither grey eyes, nor a large nose, nor the heightwhich should be attained by every man and woman bearingthat name, according to the family record.

But though only of middle size, and rather square-shouldered,he was, nevertheless, a distinguished-looking man,with a finely shaped head and well-cut features.Clean shaven, as a great lawyer ought to be, witha firm and rather satirical mouth, a broad brow, andbright hazel eyes set well apart and twinkling withhumour. No doubt John’s appearance hadbeen a factor in his successful career.

The sisters, themselves well advanced in the seventies,spoke of him and thought of him as a young man; aboy who had succeeded in life in spite of small means,and an extravagant mother, to whom he had been obligedto sacrifice his patrimony. But though he carriedhis forty-five years lightly, John Crewys had lefthis boyhood very far behind him. His crisp darkhair was frosted on the temples; he stooped a littleafter the fashion of the desk-worker; he wore pince-nez;his manner, though alert, was composed and dignified.The restlessness, the nervous energy of youth, hadbeen replaced by the calm confidence of middle age—­oftested strength, of ripe experience.

On his side, John Crewys felt very kindly towardsthe venerable ladies, who represented to him all thewomankind of his own race.

Both sisters possessed the family characteristicswhich he lacked. They were tall and surprisinglyupright, considering the weight of years which pressedupon their thin shoulders. They retained themanners—­almost the speech—­ofthe eighteenth century, to which the grandmother whowas responsible for their upbringing had belonged;and, with the exception of a very short experienceof matrimony in Lady Belstone’s case, they hadalways resided exclusively at Barracombe.

Lady Belstone, besides her widowed dignity, had theadvantage of her sister in appearance, mainly becauseshe permitted art, in some degree, to repair the ravagesof time. A stiff toupet of white curlscrowned the withered brow, below a widow’s cap;and, when she smiled, which was not very often, adouble row of pearls was not unpleasantly displayed.Miss Crewys had never succumbed to the temptationsof worldly vanity. She scrupulously parted herscanty grey locks above her polished forehead, andcared not how wide the parting grew. If she worea velvet bow upon her scalp, it was, as she truly said,for decency, and not for ornament; and further, sheallowed her wholesome, ruddy cheeks to fall in, asher ever-lengthening teeth fell out. The frequentexplanations which ensued, regarding the seniorityof the widow, were a source of constant satisfactionto Miss Crewys, and vexation to her sister.

“You might be a hundred years old, Georgina,”she would angrily lament.

“I very soon shall be a hundred yearsold, Isabella, if I live as long as my grandmotherdid,” Miss Crewys would triumphantly reply.“It is surprising to me that a woman who wasnever good-looking at the best of times, should clingto her youth as you do.”

“It is more surprising to me that you shouldlet yourself go to rack and ruin, and never stretchout a hand to help yourself.”

“I am what God made me,” said the piousGeorgina, “whereas you do everything but paintyour face, Isabella; and I have little doubt but whatyou will come to that by the time you are eighty.”

But though they disputed hotly on occasion the sistersgenerally preserved a united front before the world,and only argued, since argue they must, in the mostpolite and affectionate terms.

The firelight shed its cheerful glow over the ladentea-table, and was reflected in the silver urn, andthe crimson and gold and blue of the Crown Derby tea-set.But the old ladies, though casting longing eyes inthe direction of the teapot, religiously abstainedfrom offering to touch it.

“No, John,” said Miss Crewys, in a toneof exemplary patience; “I have made it a rulenever to take upon myself any of the duties of hospitalityin my dear brother’s house, ever since he married,—­oddas it may seem, when we remember how he used once tosit at this very table in his little bib and tucker,whilst Isabella poured out his milk, and I cut hisbread and butter.”

“We both make the rule, John,”said Lady Belstone, mournfully, “or, of course,as the elder sister, I should naturally pourout the tea in our dear Lady Mary’s absence.”

“Of course, of course,” said John Crewys.

“Forgive me, Isabella, but we have discussedthis point before,” said Miss Crewys. “ThoughI cannot deny, our cousin being, as he is, a lawyer,his opinion would carry weight. But I think hewill agree with me”—­John smiled—­“thatwhen the elder daughter of a house marries, she forfeitsher rights of seniority in that house, and the nextsister succeeds to her place.”

“I should suppose that might be the case,”John, bowing politely in the direction of the widow.

“I never disputed the fact, Georgina. Itis, as our cousin says, self-evident,” saidLady Belstone, returning the bow. “But Ihave always maintained, and always shall, that whenthe married sister comes back widowed to the homeof her fathers, the privileges of birth are restoredto her.”

Both sisters turned shrewd, expectant grey eyes upontheir cousin.

“It is—­it is rather a nice point,”said John Crewys, as gravely as he could.

He welcomed thankfully the timely interruption ofan opening door and the entrance of Canon Birch andthe doctor.

At the same moment, from the archway which supportedthe great oak staircase, the butler entered, carryinglights.

“Is her ladyship not yet returned from her walk,Ash?” asked Lady Belstone, with affected surprise.

“Her ladyship came in some time ago, my lady,and went to see Sir Timothy. She left word shewas gone upstairs to change her walking things, andwould be down directly.”

The sisters greeted the canon with effusion, and Dr.Blundell with frigid civility.

John Crewys shook hands with both gentlemen.

“I am sorry I cannot offer you tea, Canon Birch,until my sister-in-law comes down,” said MissCrewys.

“Our dear Lady Mary is so very unpunctual,”said Lady Belstone.

“I dare say something has detained her,”said the canon, good-humouredly.

“It often happens that my sister and myselfare kept waiting a quarter of an hour or more forour tea. We do not complain,” said LadyBelstone.

John Crewys began to feel a little sorry for LadyMary.

As the sisters appeared inclined to devote themselvesto their clerical visitor rather exclusively, he drewnear the recess to which Dr. Blundell had retired,and joined him in the oriel window.

“Have you never been here before?” askedthe doctor, rather abruptly.

“Never,” said John Crewys, smiling.“I understand my cousins are not much givento entertaining visitors. I have never, in fact,seen any of them but once before. That was atSir Timothy’s wedding, twenty years ago.”

“Barely nineteen,” said the doctor.

“I believe it was nineteen, since you remindme,” said John, slightly astonished. “Iremember thinking Sir Timothy a lucky man.”

“I dare say he looked much about thesame as he does now,” said the doctor.

“Well,” John said, “perhaps a littleslimmer, you know. Not much. An iron-grey,middle-aged-looking man. No; he has changed verylittle.”

“He was born elderly, and he will die elderly,”said the doctor, shortly. “Neither thefollies of youth nor the softening of age will everbe known to Sir Timothy.” He paused, notingthe surprised expression of John’s face, andadded apologetically, “I am a native of theseparts. I have known him all my life.”

“And I am—­only a stranger,”said John. He hesitated, and lowered his voice.“You know why I came?”

“Yes, I know. I am very glad you did come,”said the doctor. His tone changed. “Hereis Lady Mary,” he said.

John Crewys was struck by the sudden illuminationof Dr. Blundell’s plain, dark face. Thedeeply sunken eyes glowed, and the sadness and wearinessof their expression were dispelled.

His eyes followed the direction of the doctor’sgaze, and his own face immediately reflected the doctor’sinterest.

Lady Mary was coming down the wide staircase, in thelight of a group of wax candles held by a tall bronzeangel.

She was dressed with almost rigid simplicity, andher abundant light-brown hair was plainly parted.She was pale and even sad-looking, but beautiful still;with a delicate and regular profile, soft blue eyes,and a sweet, rather tremulous mouth.

John’s heart seemed to contract within him,and then beat fast with a sensation that was not entirelypity, because those eyes—­the bluest, heremembered, that he had ever seen—­broughtback to him, suddenly and vividly, the memory of theexquisitely fresh and lovely girl who had marriedher elderly guardian nineteen years since.

He recollected that some members of the Crewys familyhad agreed that Lady Mary Setoun had done well forherself, “a penniless lass wi’ a langpedigree;” for Sir Timothy was rich. Othershad laughed, and said that Sir Timothy was determinedthat his heirs should be able to boast some of thebluest blood in Scotland on their mother’s side,—­butthat he might have waited a little longer for hisbride.

She was so young, barely seventeen years old, andso very lovely, that John Crewys had felt indignantwith Sir Timothy, whose appearance and manner didnot attract him. He was reminded that the brideowed almost everything she possessed in the worldto her husband, but he was not pacified.

The glance of the gay blue eyes,—­the laughon the curved young mouth,—­the glint ofgold on the sunny brown hair,—­had playedhavoc with John’s honest heart. He hadnot a penny in the world at that time, and could nothave married her if he would; but from Lady Mary’swedding he carried away in his breast an image—­anideal—­which had perhaps helped to keephim unwed during these later years of his successfulcareer.

Why did she look so sad?

John’s kind heart had melted somewhat towardsSir Timothy, when the poor gentleman had sought himin his chambers on the previous day, and appealedto him for help in his extremity. He was sorryfor his cousin, in spite of the pompousness and arrogancewith which Sir Timothy unconsciously did his bestto alienate even those whom he most desired to attract.

He had come to Devonshire, at great inconvenienceto himself, in response to that appeal; and in hishurry, and his sympathy for his cousin’s trouble,he had scarcely given a thought to the momentary romanceconnected with his first and only meeting with LadyMary. Yet now, behold, after nineteen years,the look on her sweet face thrilled his middle-agedbosom as it had thrilled his young manhood. Johnsmiled or thought he smiled, as he came forward tobe presented once more to Sir Timothy’s wife;but he was, nevertheless, rather pleased to find thathe had not outgrown the power of being thus romanticallyattracted.

“I hope I’m not late,” said thesoft voice. “You see, no one expected SirTimothy to come home so soon, and I was out. Isthat Cousin John? We met once before, at my wedding.You have not changed a bit; I remember you quite well,”said Lady Mary. She came forward and held outtwo welcoming hands to her visitor.

John Crewys bowed over those little white hands, andbecame suddenly conscious that his vague, romanticsentiment had given place to a very real emotion—­analmost passionate anxiety to shield one so fair andgentle from the trouble which was threatening her,and of which, as he knew, she was perfectly unconscious.

The warmth of her impulsive welcome did not, of course,escape the keen eyes of the sisters-in-law, which,in such matters as these, were quite undimmed by age.

“Why didn’t somebody pour out tea?”said Lady Mary.

“We know your rights, Mary,” said MissCrewys. “Never shall it be said that dearTimothy’s sisters ousted his wife from her properplace, because she did not happen to be present tooccupy it.”

“Besides,” said Lady Belstone, “youhave, no doubt, some excellent reason, my love, forthe delay.”

Lady Mary’s blue eyes, glancing at John, saidquite plainly and beseechingly to his understanding,“They are old, and rather cranky, but they don’tmean to be unkind. Do forgive them;” andJohn smiled reassuringly.

“I’m afraid I haven’t much excuseto offer,” she said ingenuously. “Iwas out late, and I tired myself; and then I heardSir Timothy had come back, so I went to see him.And then I made haste to change my dress, and it tooka long time—­and that’s all.”

The three gentlemen laughed forgivingly at this explanation,and the two ladies exchanged shocked glances.

“Our cousin John did his best to entertain us,and we him,” said Lady Belstone, stiffly.

“His best—­and how good that mustbe!” said Lady Mary, with pretty spirit.“The great counsel whose eloquence is listenedto with breathless attention in crowded courts, andread at every breakfast-table in England.”

“That is a very delightful picture of the lifeof a briefless barrister,” said John Crewys,smiling.

“Mary,” said Miss Crewys, in lowered tonesof reproof, “I understood that divorcecases, unhappily, occupied the greater part of ourcousin John’s attention.”

“We’ve heard of you, nevertheless—­we’veheard of you, Mr. Crewys,” said the canon, nervouslyinterposing, “even in this out-of-the-way cornerof the west.”

“But there is one breakfast-table, at least,in England, where divorce cases are not perused,and that is my brother Timothy’s breakfast-table,”said Lady Belstone, very distinctly.

John hastened to fill up the awkward pause which ensued,by a reference to the beauty of the hall.

“I’m afraid we don’t live up toour beautiful old house,” said Lady Mary, shakingher head. “There are some lovely thingsstored away in the gallery upstairs, and some beautifulpictures hanging there, including the Vandyck, youknow, which Charles II. gave to old Sir Peter, yourcavalier ancestor. But the gallery is almost alumber-room, for the floor is too unsafe to walk upon.And down here, as you see, we are terribly Philistine.”

“This hall was furnished by my grandmother forher son’s marriage,” said Miss Crewys.

“And she sent all your great-grandmother’streasures to the attics,” said Lady Mary, withrather a wilful intonation. “I always longto bring them to light again, and to make this placelivable; but my husband does not like change.”

“Dear Timothy is faithful to the past,”said Miss Crewys, majestically.

“I wish old Lady Crewys had been as faithful,”said Lady Mary, shrugging her shoulders.

“Young people always like changes,” saidLady Belstone, more leniently.

“Young people!” said Lady Mary, with arather pathetic smile. “John will thinkyou are laughing at me. Am I to be young stillat five-and-thirty?”

“To be sure,” said John, “unlessyou are going to be so unkind as to make a man onlyten years your senior feel elderly.”

Miss Crewys interposed with a simple statement.“In my day, the age of a lady was never referredto in polite conversation. Least of all by herself.I never allude to mine.”

“You are unmarried, Georgina,” said LadyBelstone, unexpectedly turning upon her ally.“Unmarried ladies are always sensitive on thesubject of age. I am sure I do not care who knowsthat my poor admiral was twenty years my senior.And his age can be looked up in any book ofreference. It would have been useless to try andconceal it,—­a man so well known.”

“A woman is as old as she looks,” saidthe canon, soothingly, for the annoyance of Miss Crewyswas visible. “I am bound to say that MissCrewys looks exactly the same as when I first knewher.”

“Of course, a spinster escapes the wear andtear of matrimony,” said Miss Crewys, glaringat her widowed relative.

“H’m, h’m!” said Dr. Blundell.“By-the-by, have you inspected the old picturegallery, Mr. Crewys?”

“Not yet,” said John.

Lady Belstone shot a glance of speechless indignationat her sister. Sympathy between them was immediatelyrestored. Prompt action was necessary on thepart of the family, or this presumptuous physicianwould be walking round the house to show John Crewysthe portraits of his own ancestors.

“I shall be delighted to show our cousinthe pictures in the gallery and in the dining-room,”said Miss Crewys, “if my sister Isabella willaccompany me, and if Lady Mary has no objections.”

“You are very kind,” said John. Herose and walked to a small rosewood cabinet of curios.“I see there are some beautiful miniatures here.”

“Oh, those do not belong to the family.”

“They are Setoun things—­some of thefew that came to me,” said Lady Mary, rathertimidly. “I am afraid they would not interestyou.”

“Not interest me! But indeed I care onlytoo much for such things,” said John. “Hereis a Cosway, and, unless I very much mistake, a Plimer,—­andan Engleheart.”

Lady Mary unlocked the cabinet with pretty eagerness,and put a small morocco case into his hands.

“Then here is something you will like to see.”

For a moment John did not understand. He glancedquickly from the row of tiny, pearl-framed, old-worldportraits, of handsome nobles and rose-tinted courtdames, to the very indifferent modern miniature heheld.

The portrait of a schoolboy,—­an Eton boywith a long nose and small, grey eyes, and an expressiondistinctly rather sulky and lowering than open orpleasing. Not a stupid face, however, by any means.

“It is my boy—­Peter,” saidLady Mary, softly.

To her the face was something more than beautiful.She looked up at John with a happy certainty of hisinterest in her son.

“Here he is again, when he was younger.He was a pretty little fellow then, as you see.”

“Very pretty. But not very like you,”said John, scarcely knowing what he said.

He was strangely moved and touched by her evidentconfidence in his sympathy, though his artistic tasteswere outraged by the two portraits she asked him toadmire. He reflected that women were very extraordinarycreatures; ready to be pleased with anything Providencemight care to bestow upon them in the shape of a child,even cross-looking boys with long noses and smalleyes. The heir of Barracombe resembled his auntsrather than his parents.

“He is a thorough Crewys; not a bit like me.All the Setouns are fair, I believe. Peter isvery dark. He is such a big fellow now; tallerthan I am. I sometimes wish,” said LadyMary, laying the miniature on the table as thoughshe could not bear to shut it away immediately, “thatone’s children never grew up. They are suchdarlings when they are little, and they are bound,of course, to disappoint one sometimes as they growolder.”

John Crewys felt almost murderously inclined towardsPeter. So the young cub had presumed to disappointhis mother as he grew older! How dared he?

Poor Lady Mary was quite unconscious of the feelingswith which he gazed at the little case in his hand.

“Not that my boy has ever really disappointedme—­yet,” she said, with her prettyapologetic laugh. “I only mean that, inthe course of human nature, it’s bound to come,now and then.”

“No doubt,” said John, gently.

Then she allowed him to examine the rest of the cabinet,whilst she talked on, always of Peter—­hishorsemanship and his shooting and his prowess in everykind of sport and game.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, Lady Belstone was holding a hurried consultationwith her sister.

“How thoughtless you are, Georgina, asking ourcousin into the dining-room just when Ash must belaying the cloth for dinner. He will be sadlyput about.”

“Dear, dear, it quite slipped my memory, Isabella.”

“You have no head at all, Georgina.”

“Can I frame an excuse?” said Miss Crewys,piteously, “or will he think it discourteous?”

“Leave it to me, Georgina,” said LadyBelstone, with the air of a diplomat. “Mary,my love!”

Lady Mary started. “Yes, Isabella.”

“Georgina has very properly recalled to me thatcandles and lamps make a very poor light for viewingthe family portraits. You know, my love, theVandyck is so very dark and black. She proposes,therefore, with your permission, to act as our cousin’scicerone to-morrow morning, in the daytime. Shallwe say—­at eleven o’clock, John?”

Canon Birch started nervously, and the doctor frownedat him.

“At eleven o’clock,” said John,in steady tones; and, as he spoke, Sir Timothy enteredthe hall.

CHAPTER IV

“Some tea, Timothy?” said Lady Mary.

“If you please, my dear,” said Sir Timothy,dropping his letters into the box.

“I am afraid the tea will be little better thanpoison, brother,” said Lady Belstone, in warningtones; “it has stood so long.”

“Perhaps dear Mary intends to order fresh tea,Isabella,” said Miss Crewys.

“It hasn’t stood so very long,”said Lady Mary, looking appealingly at Sir Timothy;“and you know Ash is always cross if we orderfresh tea.”

“Excuse me, my love,” said Miss Crewys.“I am the last to wish to trouble poor Ash unnecessarily,but the tea waited for ten minutes before you camedown.”

“My dear Mary,” said Sir Timothy, “willyou never learn to be punctual? No; I will takeit as it is. Poor Ash has enough to do, as Georginatruly says.”

Lady Mary sighed rather impatiently, and it occurredto John Crewys that Sir Timothy spoke to his wifeexactly as he might have addressed a troublesome child.His tone was gentler than usual, but this John didnot know.

“I should have liked to take a turn about thegrounds with you,” said Sir Timothy to his cousin,“if it had been possible; but I am afraid itis getting too dark now.”

“Surely there will be time enough to-morrowmorning for that, brother,” said Lady Belstone.

Sir Timothy had walked to the oriel window, but heturned away as he answered her.

“I may be otherwise occupied to-morrow.”

“But I hope the opportunity may arise beforevery long,” said John, cheerfully. “Ishould like to explore these woods.”

“You will have to come with me, then,”said Lady Mary, smiling. “Timothy hateswalking uphill, and I should love to show our beautifulviews to a stranger.”

“I do not like you to tire yourself, my dear,”said Sir Timothy.

“A walk through Barracombe woods means simplya climb, Mary,” said Lady Belstone; “andyou are not strong.”

“I am perfectly robust, Isabella. Do allowme at least the use of my limbs,” said LadyMary, impatiently.

“No woman, certainly no lady, can becalled robust,” said Miss Crewys, severely.

The sudden clanging of a bell changed the conversation.

“Visitors. How tiresome!” said LadyMary.

“My dear Mary!” said Sir Timothy.

“But I know it can’t be anybody pleasant,Timothy,” said his wife, with rather a mischievoustwinkle, “for I owe calls to all the nice people,and it’s only the dull ones who come over andover again.”

“You owe calls, Mary!” said LadyBelstone, in horrified tones.

“I am afraid,” said Miss Crewys, consideratelylowering her voice as the butler and footman crossedthe hall to the outer vestibule, “that dearMary is more than a little remiss in civility to herneighbours.”

“My dear admiral never permitted me to postponereturning a call for more than a week. Royalty,he always said, the same day; ordinary people withina week,” said Lady Belstone.

“When royalty calls I certainly will returnthe visit the same day,” said Lady Mary, petulantly.“But I cannot spend my whole life driving alongthe high-roads from one house to another. I hatedriving, as you know, Isabella.”

“What did Providence create carriages for butto be driven in?” said Lady Belstone.

“You will give John a wrong impression of ourworthy neighbours, Mary,” said Sir Timothy,pompously. “Personally, I am always gladto see them.”

“But you don’t have to return their calls,Timothy,” said Lady Mary.

The canon inadvertently laughed. Sir Timothylooked annoyed. Miss Crewys whispered to LadyBelstone, unheard save by the doctor—­

“How very odd and flippant poor Mary is to-night—­worsethan usual! What can it be?”

“It is just the presence of a strange gentlemanthat is upsetting her, poor thing,” said hersister, in the same whisper. “Her head iseasily turned. We had better take no notice.”

The doctor muttered something emphatic beneath hisbreath.

“Mrs. and Miss Hewel,” said Ash, advancinginto the hall.

“Is it only you and Sarah, after all? Whata relief! I thought it was visitors,” criedLady Mary, coming forward to greet them very kindlyand warmly. “Did you come across in theferry?”

“No, indeed. You know how I dislike theferry. I have the long drive home still beforeme. But we were so close to Barracombe, at theGilberts’ tea-party. I thought we shouldbe certain to meet you there,” said Mrs. Hewel,in rather reproachful tones. “Sarah, ofcourse, wanted to go back in the ferry, but I am alwaysdoubly frightened at night—­and in one’sbest clothes. It was quite a large party.”

“I’m afraid I forgot all about it,”said Lady Mary, with a conscience-stricken glanceat her husband.

“I hope you sent the carriage round to the stables?”said Sir Timothy.

“No, no; we mustn’t stop a minute.But I couldn’t help just popping in—­sovery long since I’ve seen you—­andall this happening at once,” said Mrs. Hewel.She was a large, stout woman, with breathless mannerand plaintive voice. “And I wanted to showyou Sarah in her first grown-up clothes, and tellyou about her too,” she added.

“Bless me!” said Sir Timothy. “Youdon’t mean to say little Sarah is grown up.”

“Oh yes, dear Sir Timothy; she grew up the daybefore yesterday,” said Mrs. Hewel.

“Sharp work,” said the doctor, grimly.

“I mean, of course, she turned up her hair,and let her dresses down. It’s full early,I know, but it’s such a chance for Sarah—­that’spartly what I came about. After the trouble she’sbeen all her life to me, and all—­just goingto that excellent school in Germany—­here’smy aunt wanting to adopt her, or as good as adopther—­Lady Tintern, you know.”

Everybody who knew Mrs. Hewel knew also that LadyTintern was her aunt; and Lady Tintern was a verygreat lady indeed.

“She is to come out this very season; that iswhy I took her to the Gilberts’, to prepareher for the great plunge,” said Mrs. Hewel, notintending to be funny. “It will be a changefor Sarah, such a hoyden as she has always been.But my aunt won’t wait once she has got a fancyinto her head; though the child is only seventeen.”

“At seventeen I was still in the nursery,playing with my dolls,” said Lady Belstone.

“Oh, Lady Belstone!” said an odd, deep,protesting voice.

John looked with amused interest at the speaker.The unlucky Sarah had taken a low chair beside herhostess, and was holding one of the soft white handsin her plump gloved fingers.

Sarah Hewel’s adoration for Lady Mary datedfrom the days when she had been ferried over the Youlewith her nurse, to play with Peter, in his chubbychildhood. Peter had often been cross and alwaystyrannical, but it was so wonderful to find a playmatewho was naughtier than herself, that Sarah had secretlyadmired Peter. She was the black sheep of herown family, and in continual disgrace for lesser crimesthan he daily committed with impunity. But heradmiration of Peter was tame and pale beside her admirationof Lady Mary. A mother who never scolded, whotold no tales, who petted black sheep when they werebruised and torn or stained entirely through theirown wickedness, who could always be depended on forkisses and bonbons and fairy-tales, seemed more angelicthan human to poor little Sarah; whose own motherwas wrapt up in her two irreproachable sons, and hadsmall affection to spare for an ugly, tiresome littlegirl.

Sarah, however, had slowly but surely struggled outof the ugliness of her childhood; and John Crewys,regarding her critically in the lamplight, decidedshe would develop, one of these days, into a veryhandsome young woman; in spite of an ungainly stoop,a wide mouth that pouted rather too much, and a nosethat inclined saucily upwards.

Her colouring was fresh, even brilliant—­thebright rose, and creamy tint that sometimes accompaniesvivid red hair—­and of a vivid, uncompromisingred were the locks that crowned Miss Sarah’slittle head, and shaded her blue-veined temples.

Miss Crewys had, in consequence, long ago pronouncedher to be a positive fright; and Lady Belstone haddeclared that such hair would prove an insuperableobstacle to her chances of getting a husband.

“I know she’s very young,” saidMrs. Hewel, glancing apologetically at her offspring.“But what can I do? There’s no goingagainst Lady Tintern; and at seventeen she ought tobe something more than a tomboy, after all.”

“You were married at seventeen, weren’tyou?” said Sarah to Lady Mary, in her deep,almost tragic voice—­a voice that commandedattention, though it came oddly from her girlish chest.

“Sarah!” said Mrs. Hewel.

Lady Mary started and smiled. “Me?Yes, Sarah; I was married at seventeen.”

“Mamma says nobody can be married properly—­beforethey’re one and twenty. I knew itwas rot,” said Sarah, triumphantly.

“Miss Sarah retains the outspokenness of herrecently discarded childhood, I perceive,” saidSir Timothy, stiffly.

“Sarah!” said her mother, indignantly,“I said not unless they had their parents’consent. I was not thinking of Lady Mary, as youknow very well.”

“Your people didn’t say you weretoo young to marry at seventeen, did they?”said Sarah, caressing Lady Mary’s hand.

Lady Mary smiled at her, but shook her head.“You want to know too much, Sarah.”

“Oh, I forgot,” said Sarah the artless.“Sir Timothy was your guardian, so, of course,there was nobody to stop his marrying you if he liked.I suppose you had to do what he told you.”

“Oh, Sarah, will you cease chattering?”cried her mother.

“I hope you have good news of your sons in SouthAfrica, Mrs. Hewel,” said the canon, brisklyadvancing to the rescue.

Mrs. Hewel’s voice changed. “Thankyou, canon; they were all right when we heard last.Tom is in Natal, so I feel happier about him; butWillie, of course, is in the thick of it all—­andthe news to-day—­isn’t reassuring.”

“But you are proud of them both,” saidLady Mary, softly. “Every mother must beproud to have sons able and willing to fight for theircountry.”

“We may feel differently concerning the justiceof this war,” said Sir Timothy, clearing histhroat; and Lady Mary shrugged her shoulders, whilstthe canon jumped from his chair, and sat meekly downagain on catching the doctor’s eye.

“But in our sympathy with our brave soldierswe are all one, Mrs. Hewel.”

Sarah sprang forward. “You don’tmean to say you’re still a pro-Boer,Sir Timothy?” she exclaimed. “Well,mamma—­talking of the justice of the war—­whenTom and Willie are risking their lives”—­shebroke into a sudden sob—­“and now Peter—­”

“Peter!” said Lady Mary.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Sarah, runningto her friend. “I didn’t mean tohurt you—­talking of the war—­and—­andthe boys—­when you must be thinking onlyof Peter.” She wrung her hands togetherpiteously.

“Of Peter!” Lady Mary repeated.

“We only heard to-day,” said Mrs. Hewel,“and came in hoping for more details. Mycousin George, who is also going out with Lord Ferries,happened to mention in his letter that Peter had joinedthe corps.”

“I think I can explain how the mistake arose,”said Sir Timothy, stiffly. “Peter wrotefor permission to join, and I refused. My sonis fortunately too young to be of any use in a contestI regard with horror.”

“But Cousin George was helping Peter to gethis kit, because they were to sail at such short notice,”cried Sarah.

“Sarah,” said her mother, in breathlessindignation, “will you be silent?”

“What does this mean, Timothy?” said LadyMary, trembling.

She stood by the centre table; and the hanging lampabove shed its light on her brown hair, and flashedin her blue eyes, and from the diamond ring she wore.

The doctor rose from his chair.

“I am at a loss to understand,” said SirTimothy.

“It means,” said Sarah, half-hysterically,—­“oh,can’t you see what it means? It just meansthat Peter is going to South Africa, whether you likeit or not.”

“There must be some mistake, of course,”said Mrs. Hewel, in distressed tones. “Andyet—­George’s letter was so very clear.”

Dr. Blundell touched the canon’s arm.

“Shall I—­must I—­”whispered the canon, nervously.

“There is no help for it,” said the doctor.He was looking at Lady Mary as he spoke. Herface was deathly; her little frail hand grasped thetable.

“Sir Timothy,” said the canon, “I—­Ihave a communication to make to you.”

“On this subject?” said Sir Timothy.

“A letter from Peter.”

“Why did you not say so earlier?” saidSir Timothy, harshly.

“I will explain, if you will kindly give mefive minutes in the study.”

“A letter from Peter,” said Lady Mary,“and not—­to me.”

She looked round at them all with a little vacantsmile.

John Crewys, who knew nothing of Peter’s letter,had already grasped the situation. He divinedalso that Lady Mary was fighting piteously againstthe conviction that Sarah’s news was true.

“How could we guess you did not know?”said Mrs. Hewel, almost weeping.

“I am still in the dark,” said Sir Timothy,coldly.

“Birch will explain at once,” said thedoctor, impatiently.

“Peter writes—­asking me,—­Iam sure I don’t know why he pitched upon me,—­to—­breakthe news to you, that he has joined Lord Ferries’Horse; feeling it his—­his duty to his countryto do so,” said the unhappy canon, folding andunfolding the letter he held, with agitated fingers.

“I knew there would be a satisfactory explanation,”said Mrs. Hewel, tearfully. “Dear LadyMary, having so inadvertently anticipated Peter’sletter, there is only one thing left for me to do.I must at least leave you and Sir Timothy in peaceto read it. Come, Sarah.”

“Allow me to put you into your carriage,”said Sir Timothy, in a voice of iron.

Sarah followed them to the door, paused irresolutely,and stole back to Lady Mary’s side.

“Say you’re not angry with me, dear, beautifulLady Mary,” she whispered passionately.“Do say you’re not angry. I didn’tknow it would make you so unhappy. It was partlymy fault for telling Peter in the holidays that onlyold men, invalids, and—­and cowards—­wereshirking South Africa. I thought you’d beglad, like me, that Peter should go and fight likeall the other boys.”

“Sarah,” said Dr. Blundell, gently, “don’tyou see that Lady Mary can’t attend to you now?Come away, like a good girl.”

He took her arm, and led her out of the hall; andSarah forgot she had grown up the day before yesterday,and sobbed loudly as she went away.

Lady Mary lifted the miniature from the table, andlooked at it without a word; but from the sofa, thetwo old sisters babbled audibly to each other.

“I always said, Isabella, that if poor Maryspoilt Peter so terribly, something would happento him.”

“What sad nonsense you talk, Georgina.Nothing has happened to him—­yet.”

“He has defied his father, Isabella.”

“He has obeyed his country’s call, Georgina.Had the admiral been alive, he would certainly havevolunteered.”

John Crewys made an involuntary step forward and placedhimself between the sofa and the table, as thoughto shield Lady Mary from their observation, but hecould not prevent their words from reaching her ears.

She whispered to him very softly. “Willyou get the letter for me? I want to see—­formyself—­what—­what Peter says.”

“Go quietly into the library,” said John,bending over her for a moment. “I willbring it you there immediately.”

She obeyed him without a word.

John turned to the sofa. “I beg your pardon,canon,” he said courteously, “but LadyMary cannot bear this suspense. Allow me to takeher son’s letter to her at once.”

“I—­I am only waiting for Sir Timothy.It is to him I have to break the news; though, ofcourse, there is nothing that Lady Mary may not know,”said the canon, in a polite but flurried tone.“I really should not like—­”

“My brother must see it first,” said MissCrewys, decidedly.

“Exactly. I am sure Sir Timothy would notbe pleased if—­Bless my soul!”

For John, with a slight bow of apology, and his graveair of authority, had quietly taken the letter fromthe canon’s undecided fingers, and walked awaywith it into the library.

“How very oddly our cousin John behaves!”said Lady Belstone, indignantly. “Almostsnatching the letter from your hand.”

“Depend upon it, Mary inspired his action,”said Miss Crewys, angrily. “I saw her whisperingaway to him. A man she never set eyes on before.”

“Pray are we not to hear the contents?”said Lady Belstone, quivering with indignation.

“I suppose he thinks Lady Mary should make thecommunication herself to Sir Timothy,” gaspedthe canon. “I am sure I have no desire tofulfil so unpleasing a task. Still, the matterwas entrusted to me. However, the mainsubstance has been told; there can be no further secretabout it. My only care was that Sir Timothy shouldnot be unduly agitated.”

“It is a comfort to find that some onecan consider the feelings of our poor brother,”said Miss Crewys.

“Do give me your arm to the drawing-room, canon,”said Lady Belstone, rightly judging that the canonwould reveal the whole contents of Peter’s letterto her more easily in private. “The shockhas made me feel quite faint. You, too, Georgina,are looking pale.”

“It is not the shock, but the draught, whichis affecting me, Isabella,—­Sir Timothythoughtlessly keeping the door open so long. Iwill accompany you to the drawing-room.”

“But Sir Timothy may want me,” said thecanon, uneasily.

“Bless the man! they’ve got the letteritself, what can they want with you?”said her ladyship, vigorously propelling her supporterout of reach of possible interruption. “Closethe door behind us, Georgina, I beg, or that odiousdoctor will be racing after us.”

“He takes far too much upon himself. Ihave no idea of permitting country apothecaries tobe so familiar,” said Miss Crewys.

CHAPTER V

Lady Mary, coming from the library with the letterin her hand, met her husband in the hall.

“Timothy!”

She looked at him wistfully. Her face was verypale as she gave him the letter. Sir Timothytook out his glasses, wiped them deliberately, andput them on.

“Never mind reading it. I can tell youin one word,” she said, trembling with impatience.“My boy is sailing for South Africa to-morrowmorning.”

“I prefer,” said Sir Timothy, “toread the letter for myself.”

“Oh, do be quick!” she said, half underher breath.

But he read it slowly twice, and folded it. Hewas really thunderstruck. Peter was accustomedto write polite platitudes to his parent, and hadpresumably not intended that his letter to the canonshould be actually read by Sir Timothy, when he hadasked that the contents of it should be broken tohim.

“Selfish, disobedient, headstrong, deceitfulboy!” said Sir Timothy.

Lady Mary started. “How can you talk so!”Her gentle voice sounded almost fierce. “Atleast he has proved himself a man.’ Andhe is right. It was a shame and a disgrace forhim to stay at home, whilst his comrades did theirduty. I say it a thousand times, though I amhis mother.”

Then she broke down. “Oh, Peter, my boy,my boy, how could you leave me without a word!”

“Perhaps this step was taken with your connivanceafter all?” said Sir Timothy, suspiciously.He could not follow her rapid changes of mood, andhad listened resentfully to her defence of her son.

“Timothy!” said Lady Mary, trembling,“when have I ever been disloyal to you in wordor deed?”

“Never, I hope,” said Sir Timothy.His voice shook a little. “I do not doubtyou for a moment, Mary. But you spoke with suchstrange vehemence, so unlike your usual proprietyof manner.”

She broke into a wild laugh which pained and astonishedhim.

“Did I? I must have forgotten myself fora moment.”

“You must, indeed. Pray be calm. Iunderstand that this must be a terrible shock to you.”

“It is not a shock,” said Lady Mary, defiantly.“I glory in it. I—­I wishhim to go. Oh, Peter, my darling!”

She hid her face in her hands.

“It would be more to the purpose,” saidSir Timothy, “to consider what is to be done.”

“Could we stop him?” she cried eagerly,and then changed once more. “No, no; Iwouldn’t if I could. He would never forgiveme.”

“Of course, we cannot stop him,” saidSir Timothy. He raised his voice as he was wontwhen he was angry. Canon Birch, in the drawing-room,heard the loud threatening tones, and was thankfulfor the door which shut him from Sir Timothy’spresence. “He has laid his plans for thwartingmy known wishes too well. I do not know what mightbe said if we stopped him. I—­I won’thave my name made a laughing-stock. I am a Crewys,and the honour of the family lies in my hands.I can’t give the world a right to suspect aCrewys of cowardice, by preventing his departure onactive service. We have fought before—­ina better cause.”

“We won’t discuss the cause,” saidLady Mary, gently. When Sir Timothy began toshout, she always grew calm. “Then you willnot telegraph to my cousin Ferries?”

“Ferries ought to have written to me,and not taken the word of a mere boy, like Peter,”stormed Sir Timothy. “But the fact is, Inever flattered Ferries as he expected; it is notmy way to natter any one; and consequently he tooka dislike to me. He must have known what my viewsare. I am sure he did it on purpose.”

“It was natural he should believe Peter, andI don’t think he knows you well enough to dislikeyou,” said Lady Mary, simply. “Hehas only seen you twice, Timothy.”

“That was evidently sufficient,” saidSir Timothy, meaning to be ironical, and unaware thathe was stating a plain fact. “I shall certainlynot telegraph to tell him that my son has lied to him,well as Peter deserves that I should do so.”

“Oh, don’t, don’t; you are so hard!”she said piteously. “If you’d onlylistened to him when he implored you to let him go,we could have made his last days at home all theyshould be. He’s been hiding in London,poor Peter; getting his outfit by stealth, ashamed,whilst other boys are being feted and praisedby their people, proud of earning so early their rightto be considered men. And—­and he’sonly a boy. And he said himself, all’s fairin love and war. Indeed, Timothy, it is an exceptionalcase.”

“Mary, your weakness is painful, and your idolatryof Peter will bring its own punishment. The partof his deception that should pain you most is thewant of heart he has displayed,” said Sir Timothy,bitterly.

“And doesn’t it?” she said, witha pathetic smile. “But one oughtn’tto expect too much heart from a boy, ought one?It’s—­it’s not a healthy sign.You said once you were glad he wasn’t sentimental,like me.”

“I should have wished him to exhibit properfeeling on proper occasions. His present triumphover my authority involves his departure to certaindanger and possible death, without even affordingus the opportunity of bidding him farewell. Heis ready and willing to leave us thus.”

Lady Mary uttered a stifled scream. “ButI won’t let him. How can you think hismother will let him go like that?”

“How can you help it?”

She pressed her trembling hands to her forehead.“I will think. There is a way. Thereare plenty of ways. I can drive to the junction—­it’snot much further than Brawnton—­and catchthe midnight express, and get to Southampton by daybreak.I know it can be done. Ash will look out thetrains. Why do you look at me like that?You’re not going to stop my going, are you?You’re not going to try and stop me, areyou? For you won’t succeed. Oh yes,I know I’ve been an obedient wife, Timothy.But I—­I defied you once before for Peter’ssake; when he was such a little boy, and you wantedto punish him—­don’t you remember?”

“Don’t talk so, Mary,” said SirTimothy, almost soothingly. Her vehemence reallyalarmed and distressed him. “It is not likeyou to talk like this. You will be sorry—­afterwards,”he said; and his voice softened.

She responded instantly. She came closer to him,and took his big shaking hand into her gentle clasp.

“I should be sorry afterwards,” she said,“and so would you. Even you wouldbe sorry, Timothy, if anything happened to Peter.I’ll try and not make any more excuses for him,if you like. I know he’s not a child now.He’s almost a man; and men seem to me to growharsh and unloving as they grow older. I try,now and then, to shut my eyes and see him as he oncewas; but all the time I know that the little boy whoused to be Peter has gone away for ever and ever andever. If he had died when he was little he wouldalways have been my little boy, wouldn’t he?But, thank God, he didn’t die. He’sgoing to be a great strong man, and a brave soldier,and—­and all I’ve ever wanted him tobe—­when he’s got over these wilfuldays of boyhood. But he mustn’t go withouthis father’s blessing and his mother’skiss.”

“He has chosen to do so, Mary,” said SirTimothy, coldly.

She clung to him caressingly. “But you’regoing to forgive him before he goes, Timothy.There’s no time to be angry before he goes.It may be too late to-morrow.”

“It may be too late to-morrow,” repeatedSir Timothy, heavily.

He resented, in a dull, self-pitying fashion, thefact that his wife’s thoughts were so exclusivelyfixed on Peter, in her ignorance of his own more immediatedanger.

“Don’t think I’m blind to his faults,”urged Lady Mary, “only I can laugh at them betterthan you can, because I know all the while thatat the very bottom of his heart he’s only mybaby Peter after all. He’s not—­Godbless him—­he’s not the dreary,cold-blooded, priggish boy he sometimes pretends tobe. Don’t remember him like that now, Timothy.Think of that morning in June—­that glorious,sunny morning in June, when you knelt by the openwindow in my room and thanked God because you hada son. Think of that other summer day when wecouldn’t bear even to look at the roses becauselittle Peter was so ill, and we were afraid he wasgoing back to heaven.”

Her soft, rapid words touched Sir Timothy to a vaguefeeling of pity for her, and for Peter, and for himself.But the voice of the charmer, charm she never so wisely,had no power, after all, to dispel the dark cloudthat was hanging over him.

The sorrow gave way to a keener anxiety. Thecalmness of mind which the great surgeon had prescribed—­theplacid courage, largely aided by dulness of imagination,which had enabled poor Sir Timothy to keep in thevery background of his thoughts all apprehensions forthe morrow—­where were they?

He repressed with an effort the emotion which threatenedto master him, and forced himself to be calm.When he spoke again his voice sounded not much lessmeasured and pompous than usual.

“My dear, you are agitating yourself and me.Let us confine ourselves to the subject in hand.”

Lady Mary dropped the unresponsive hand she held sowarmly pressed between her own, and stepped back.

“Ah, forgive me!” she said in clear tones.“It’s so difficult to—­”

“To—?”

“To be exactly what you wish. To be alwayson guard. My feelings broke bounds for once.”

“Calm yourself,” said Sir Timothy.“And besides, so far as I am concerned, yourpleading for Peter is unnecessary.”

“You have forgiven him?” she cried joyfully,yet almost incredulously.

He paused, and then said with solemnity: “Ihave forgiven him, Mary. It is not the momentfor me to cherish resentment, least of all againstmy only son.”

“Ah, thank God! Then you will come to Southampton?”

“That is impossible. But I will telegraphmy forgiveness and the blessing which he has not soughtthat he may receive it before the ship sails.”

“I am grateful to you for doing even so muchas that, Timothy, and for not being angry. ThenI must go alone?”

“No, no.”

“Understand me,” said Lady Mary, in alow voice, “for I am in earnest. I havenever deceived you. I will not defy you in secret,like Peter; but I will go and bid my only sonGod-speed, though the whole world conspired to preventme. I will go!”

There was a pause.

“You speak,” said Sir Timothy, resentfully,“as though I had habitually thwarted your wishes.”

“Oh, no,” said his wife, softly, “younever even found out what they were.”

He did not notice the words; it is doubtful whetherhe heard them.

“It has been my best endeavour to promote yourhappiness throughout our married life, Mary, so faras I considered it compatible with your highest welfare.I do not pretend I can enter into the high-flown andromantic feelings engendered by your reprehensiblehabit of novel-reading.”

“You’ve scolded me so often for that,”said Lady Mary, half mockingly, half sadly. “Can’twe—­keep to the subject in hand, as you saidjust now?”

“I have a reason, a strong reason,” saidSir Timothy, “for wishing you to remain at hometo-morrow. I had hoped, by concealing it fromyou, to spare you some of the painful suspense andanxiety which I am myself experiencing.”

Lady Mary laughed.

“How like a man to suppose a woman is sparedanything by being kept in the dark! I knew somethingwas wrong. Dr. Blundell and Canon Birch are inyour confidence, I presume? They kept exchangingglances like two mysterious owls. Your sistersare not, or they would be sighing and shaking theirheads. And John—­John Crewys? Oh,he is a lawyer. When does a visitor ever comehere except on business? He has something todo with it. Ah, to advise you for nothing overyour purchase of the Crown lands! You have gotinto some difficulty over that, or something of thekind? You brought him down here for some specialpurpose, I am sure; but I did not know him well enough,and I knew you too well, to ask why.”

“Mary, what has come to you? I never knewyou quite like this before. I dislike this extraordinaryflippancy of tone very much.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Lady Mary; makeallowance for me this once. I learnt ten minutesago that my boy was going to the war. I musteither laugh or—­or cry, and you wouldn’tlike me to do that; but it’s a way women havewhen their hearts are half broken.”

“I don’t understand you,” he saidhelplessly.

Lady Mary looked at him as though she had awakened,frightened, to the consciousness of her own temerity.

“I don’t quite understand myself, I think,”she said, in a subdued voice. “I won’ttorment you any more, Timothy; I will be as calm andcollected—­as you wish. Only let mego.”

“Will you not listen to my reason for wishingyou to remain at home?” he said sternly.“It is an important one.”

“I had forgotten,” she said indifferently.“How can there be any business in the worldhalf so important to me as seeing my boy oncemore before he sails?”

The colour of Sir Timothy’s ruddy face deepenedalmost to purple, his grey eyes glowered sullen resentmentat his wife.

“Since you desire to have your way in oppositionto my wishes, go!” he thundered.“I will not hinder you further.”

But his sonorous wrath was too familiar to be impressive.

Lady Mary’s expression scarcely changed whenSir Timothy raised his voice. She turned, however,at the foot of the staircase, and spoke to him again.

“Let me just go and give the order for my thingsto be packed, Timothy, and tell Ash to go and findout about the trains, and I will return and listento whatever you wish—­I will, indeed.I could not pay proper attention to anything untilI knew that was being done.”

Sir Timothy did not trust himself to speak. Hebowed his head, and the slender figure passed swiftlyup the stairs.

Sir Timothy walked twice deliberately up and downthe empty hall, and felt his pulse. The slow,steady throb reassured him. He opened the doorof the study.

“John,” said Sir Timothy, “wouldyou kindly come out here and speak to me for a moment?Dr. Blundell, would you have the goodness to awaitme a little longer? You will find the Londonpapers there.”

“I have them,” said Dr. Blundell, fromthe armchair by the study fire.

John Crewys closed the door behind him, and lookedrather anxiously at his cousin. It struck himthat Sir Timothy had lost some of his ruddy colour,and that his face looked drawn and old.

But the squire placed himself with his back to thelog fire, and made an effort to speak in his voiceof everyday. His slightly pompous, patronizingmanner returned upon him.

“You are doubtless accustomed, John, in thecourse of your professional work,” he said,“to advise in difficult matters. You comeamong us a stranger—­and unprejudiced.Will you—­er—­give me the benefitof your opinion?”

“To the best of my ability,” said John.He paused, and added gently, “I am sorry forthis fresh trouble that has come upon you.”

“That is the subject on which I mean to consultyou. Do you consider that—­that herhusband or her child should stand first in a woman’seyes?”

“Her husband, undoubtedly,” said John,readily, “but—­”

“But what?” said Sir Timothy, impatiently.A gleam of satisfaction had broken over his heavyface at his cousin’s reply.

“I speak from a man’s point of view,”said John. “Woman—­and possiblyNature—­may speak differently.”

“Your judgment, however, coincides with mine,which is all that matters,” said Sir Timothy.He did not perceive the twinkle in John’s eyesat this reply. “In my opinion there areonly two ways of looking at every question—­theright way and the wrong way.”

“My profession teaches me,” said John,“that there are as many different points ofview as there are parties to a case.”

“Then—­from my point of view,”said Sir Timothy, with an air of waving all otherpoints of view away as irrelevant, “since mywife, very naturally, desires to see her son againbefore he sails, am I justified in allowing her toset off in ignorance of the ordeal that awaits me?”

“Good heavens, no!” cried John. “Shouldthe operation prove unsuccessful, you would be entailingupon her a lifelong remorse.”

“I did not look upon it in that light,”said Sir Timothy, rather stiffly. “Thepropriety or the impropriety of her going remains inany, case the same, whether the operation succeedsor fails. I feared that it would be the wrongthing to allow her to go at all; that it might causecomment were she absent from my side at such a criticaljuncture.”

“I see,” said John. His mobile, expressiveface and bright hazel eyes seemed to light up forone instant with scorn and wonder; then he recollectedhimself. “It is natural you should wishfor her sustaining presence, no doubt,” he said.

“I trust you do not suppose that I should beselfishly considering my own personal feelings atsuch a time,” said Sir Timothy, in a lofty toneof reproof. “I am only desirous of doingwhat is right in the matter. I am asking youradvice because I feel that my self-command has beenshaken considerably by this unexpected blow. Iam less sure of my judgment than usual in consequence.However, if you think my wife ought to be told”—­Johnnodded very decidedly—­“let her betold. I am bound to say Dr. Blundell thoughtso too, though his opinion is neither here nor therein such a matter, but so long as you understand thatmy only desire is that both she and I should do whatis most correct and proper.” He came closerto John. “It is of vital importance forme to preserve my composure,” said Sir Timothy.“I am not fitted for—­for any kindof scene just now. Will you undertake for methe task of explaining to—­to my dear wifethe situation in which I am placed?”

“I will do my best,” said John. Hewas touched by the note of piteous anxiety which hadcrept into the squire’s harsh voice.

“Thank you,” said Sir Timothy. “Willyou await her here? She is returning immediately.Break it to her as gently as you can. I shallrest and compose myself by a talk with Dr. Blundell.”

He went slowly to the study, leaving John Crewys alone.

CHAPTER VI

“Is that you, Cousin John?” said LadyMary. “Is Sir Timothy gone? I havenot been away more than a few minutes, have I?”

She spoke quite brightly. Her cheeks were flushed,and her blue eyes were sparkling with excitement.

John looked at her, and found himself wishing thather soft, brown hair were not strained so tightlyfrom her forehead, nor brushed so closely to her head;the fashion would have been trying to a younger face,and fatal to features less regularly delicate and correct.He also wished she were not dressed like a Quaker’swife. The stiff, grey poplin fitted like a glovethe pretty curves of Lady Mary’s slender figure,but it lacked distinction, and appropriateness, toJohn’s fastidious eye. Then he reproachedhimself vehemently for allowing his thoughts to dwellon such trifles at such a moment.

“Will you forgive me for going away the veryday you come?” said Lady Mary.

How quickly, how surprisingly, she recovered her spirits!She had looked so weary and sad as she came down thestairs an hour ago. Now she was almost gay.A feverish and unnatural gaiety, no doubt; but thoseflushed cheeks, and glittering blue eyes—­howthey restored the youthful loveliness of the facehe had once thought the most beautiful he ever saw!

“I am going to see the last of my boy.You’ll understand, won’t you? Youwere an only son too. And your mother would havegone to the ends of the earth to look upon your faceonce more, wouldn’t she? Mothers are madelike that.”

“Some mothers,” said John; and he turnedaway his head.

“Not yours? I’m sorry,” saidLady Mary, simply.

“Oh, well—­you know, she was a gooddeal—­in the world,” he said, repentinghimself.

“I use to wish so much to live in the worldtoo,” said Lady Mary, dreamily; “but eversince I was fifteen I’ve lived in this out-of-the-wayplace.”

“Don’t be too sorry for that,” saidJohn; “you don’t know what a revelationthis out-of-the-way place may be to a tired workerlike me, who lives always amid the unlovely sightsand sounds of a city.”

“Ah! but that’s just it,” she saidquickly. “You see I’m not tired—­yet;and I’ve done no work.”

“That is why it’s such a rest to lookat you,” said John, smiling. “Flowershave their place in creation as vegetables have theirs.But we only ask the flowers to bloom peacefully insheltered gardens; we don’t insist on poppingthem into the soup with the onions and carrots.”

Lady Mary laughed as though she had not a care inthe world.

“It is quite refreshing to find that a big-wiglike you can talk just as much nonsense as a little-wiglike me,” she said; “but you don’tknow, for all that, what the silence and monotony oflife here can be. The very voice of astranger falls like music on one’s ears.I was so glad to see you, and you were so kind andsympathetic about—­my boy. And then,all in a moment, my joy was turned into mourning,wasn’t it? And Peter is going to the war,and it’s all like a dreadful dream; except thatI know I shall wake up every morning only to realizemore strongly that it’s true.”

John remembered that he was dallying with his mission,instead of fulfilling it.

“Sir Timothy cannot go to see his son off?That must be a grief to him,” he said.

“No; he isn’t coming. He has business,I believe,” said Lady Mary, a little coldly.“There has been a dispute over some Crown lands,which march with ours. Officials are often verydilatory and difficult to deal with. Probably,however, you know more about it than I do. I amgoing alone. I have just been giving the necessaryorders. I shall take a servant with me, as wellas my maid, for I am such an inexperienced traveller—­thoughit seems absurd, at my age—­that I am quitefrightened of getting into the wrong trains. Idread a journey by myself. Even such a littlejourney as that. But, of course, nothing wouldkeep me at home.”

“Only one thing,” said John, in a lowvoice, “if I have judged your character rightlyin so short a time.”

“What is that?”

“Duty.”

She looked at him with sweet, puzzled eyes, like achild.

“Are you pleading Sir Timothy’s cause,Cousin John?” she said, with a little touchof offence in her tone that was only charming.

“I am pleading Sir Timothy’s cause,”said John, seriously.

“Love is stronger than duty, isn’t it?”said Lady Mary.

“I hope not,” said John, very simply.

“You mean my husband doesn’t wish me togo?”

“Don’t think me too presuming,”he said pleadingly.

“I couldn’t,” said Lady Mary, naively.“You are older than I am, you know,” shelaughed, “and a Q.C. And you know you wouldbe my trustee and my boy’s guardian if anythingever happened to Sir Timothy. He told me so longago. And he reminded me of it to-day most solemnly.I suppose he was afraid I shouldn’t treat youwith proper respect.”

“He has honoured me very highly,” saidJohn. “In that case, it would be almostmy—­my duty to advise you in any difficultythat might arise, wouldn’t it?”

“That means you want to advise me now?”

“Frankly, it does.”

“And are you going to tell me that Iought to stay at home, and let my only boy leave Englandwithout bidding him God-speed?” said Lady Maryincredulously. “If so, I warn you that youwill never convince me of that, argue as you may.”

“No one is ever convinced by argument,”said John. “But stern facts sometimes commandeven a woman’s attention.”

“When backed by such powers of persuasion asyours, perhaps.”

She faced him with sparkling eyes. Lady Marywas timid and gentle by nature, but Peter’smother knew no fear. Yet she realized that ifJohn Crewys were moved to put forth his full powers,he might be a difficult man to oppose. She methis glance, and observed that he perfectly understoodthe spirit which animated her, and that it was notopposition that shone from his bright hazel eyes, ashe regarded her steadily through his pince-nez.

“I am going to deal with a hard fact, whichyour husband is afraid to tell you,” said John,“because, in his tenderness for your womanlyweakness, he underrates, as I venture to think, yourwomanly courage. Sir Timothy wants you to bewith him here to-morrow because he has to—­tofight an unequal battle—­”

“With the Crown?”

“With Death.”

“What do you mean?” said Lady Mary.

“He has been silently combating a mortal diseasefor many months past,” said John, “andto-morrow morning the issue is to be decided.Every day, every hour of delay, increases the danger.The great surgeon, Dr. Herslett, will be here at eleveno’clock, and on the success of the operationhe will perform, hangs the thread of your husband’slife.”

Lady Mary put up a little trembling hand entreatingly,and John’s great heart throbbed with pity.He had chosen his words deliberately to startle herfrom her absorption in her son; but she looked sofragile, so white, so imploring, that his courage almostfailed him. He came to her side, and took thelittle hand reassuringly in his strong, warm clasp.

“Be brave, my dear,” he said, with falteringvoice, “and put aside, if you can, the thoughtof your bitter, terrible disappointment. Onlyyou can cheer, and inspire, and aid your husbandto maintain the calmness of spirit which is of suchvital importance to his chance of recovery. Youcan’t leave him against his wish at such a moment;not if you are the—­the angel I believe youto be,” said John, with emotion.

There was a pause, and though he looked away fromher, he knew that she was crying.

John released the little hand gently, and walked tothe fireplace to give her time to recover herself.Perhaps his eye-glasses were dimmed; he polished themvery carefully.

Lady Mary dashed away her tears, and spoke in a hardvoice he scarcely recognized as hers.

“I might be all—­you think me, John,”she said, “if—­”

“Ah! don’t let there be an if,”said John.

“But—­”

“Or a but.”

“It is that you don’t understand the situation,”she said; “you talk as though Sir Timothy andI were an ordinary husband and wife, entirely dependenton one another’s love and sympathy. Don’tyou know he stands alone—­above allthe human follies and weaknesses of a mere woman?Can’t you guess,” said Lady Mary, passionately,“that it’s my boy, my poor faulty, undutifulboy—­oh, that I should call him so!—­whoneeds me? that it’s his voice that would be callingin my heart whilst I awaited Sir Timothy’s pleasureto-morrow?”

“His pleasure?” said John, sternly.

“I am shocking you, and I didn’t wantto shock you,” she cried, almost wildly.“But you don’t suppose he needs me—­memyself? He only wants to be sure I’m doingthe right thing. He wants to give people no chanceof saying that Lady Mary Crewys rushed off to see herspoilt boy whilst her husband hovered between lifeand death. A lay figure would do just as well;if it would only sit in an armchair and hold its handkerchiefto its eyes; and if the neighbours, and his sisters,and the servants could be persuaded to think it wasI.”

“Hush, hush!” said John.

“Do let me speak out; pray let me speak out,”she said, breathless and imploring, “and youcan think what you like of me afterwards, when I amgone, if only you won’t scold now. I amso sick of being scolded,” said Lady Mary.“Am I to be a child for ever—­I, thatam so old, and have lost my boy?”

He thought there was something in her of the childthat never grows up; the guilelessness, the charm,the ready tears and smiles, the quick changes of mood.

He rolled an elbow-chair forward, and put her intoit tenderly.

“Say what you will,” said John.

“This is comfortable,” she said, leaningher head wearily on her hand; “to talk to a—­afriend who understands, and who will not scold.But you can’t understand unless I tell you everything;and Timothy himself, after all, would be the firstto explain to you that it isn’t my tears normy kisses, nor my consolation he wants. You didn’tthink so really, did you?”

John hesitated, remembering Sir Timothy’s words,but she did not wait for an answer.

“Yes,” she said calmly, “he wishesme to be in my proper place. It would be a scandalif I did such a remarkable thing as to leave homeon any pretext at such a moment. Only by beingextraordinarily respectable and dignified can we livedown the memory of his father’s unconventionalbehaviour. I must remember my position. Imust smell my salts, and put my feet up on the sofa,and be moderately overcome during the crisis, andmoderately thankful to the Almighty when it’sover, so that every one may hear how admirably dearLady Mary behaved. And when I am reading theTimes to him during his convalescence,”she cried, wringing her hands, “Peter—­Peterwill be thousands of miles away, marching over theveldt to his death.”

“You make very sure of Peter’s death,”said John, quietly.

“Oh yes,” said Lady Mary, listlessly.“He’s an only son. It’s alwaysthe only sons who die. I’ve remarked that.”

“You make very sure of Sir Timothy’s recovery.”

“Oh yes,” Lady Mary said again. “He’sa very strong man.”

Something ominous in John’s face and voice attractedher attention.

“Why do you look like that?”

“Because,” said John, slowly—­“youunderstand I’m treating you as a woman of courage—­Dr.Blundell told me just now that—­the oddsare against him.”

She uttered a little cry.

The doctor’s voice at the end of the hall madethem both start.

“Lady Mary,” he said, “you willforgive my interruption. Sir Timothy desiredme to join you. He feared this double blow mightprove too much for your strength.”

“I am quite strong,” said Lady Mary.

“He wished me to deliver a message,” saidthe doctor.

“Yes.”

“On reflection, Sir Timothy believes that hemay be partly influenced by a selfish desire for theconsolation of your presence in wishing you to remainwith him to-morrow. He was struck, I believe,with something Mr. Crewys said—­on thispoint.”

“God bless you, John!” said Lady Mary.

“Hush!” said John, shaking his head.

Dr. Blundell’s voice sounded, John thought,as though he were putting force upon himself to speakcalmly and steadily. His eyes were bent on thefloor, and he never once looked at Lady Mary.

“Sir Timothy desires, consequently,” hesaid, “that you will consider yourself freeto follow your own wishes in the matter; being guided,as far as possible, by the advice of Mr. Crewys.He is afraid of further agitation, and therefore asksyou to convey to him, as quickly as possible, yourfinal decision. As his physician, may I beg younot to keep him waiting?”

He left them, and returned to the study.

Though it was only a short silence that followed hisdeparture, John had time to learn by heart the aspectof the half-lighted, shadowy hall.

There are some pauses which are illustrated to theday of a man’s death, by a vivid impressionon his memory of the surroundings.

The heavy, painted beams crossing and re-crossingthe lofty roof; the black staircase lighted with waxcandles, that made a brilliancy which threw into deeperrelief the darkness of every recess and corner; thefull-length, Early Victorian portraits of men and womenof his own race—­inartistic daubs, thatwere yet horribly lifelike in the semi-illumination;the uncurtained mullioned windows,—­all formeda background for the central figure in his thoughts;the slender womanly form in the armchair; the littlebrown head supported on the white hand; the delicateface, robbed of its youthful freshness, and yet solovely still.

“John,” said Lady Mary, in a voice fromwhich all passion and strength had died away, “tellme what I ought to do.”

“Remain with your husband.”

“And let my boy go?” said Lady Mary, weeping.“I had thought, when he was leaving me, perhapsfor ever, that—­that his heart would betouched—­that I should get a glimpse oncemore of the Peter he used to be. Oh, can’tyou understand? He—­he’s a little—­hardand cold to me sometimes—­God forgive mefor saying so!—­but you—­you’vebeen a young man too.”

“Yes,” John said, rather sadly, “I’vebeen young too.”

“It’s only his age, you know,” shesaid. “He couldn’t always be as gentleand loving as when he was a child. A young manwould think that so babyish. He wants, as hesays, to be independent, and not tied to a woman’sapron-string. But in his heart of hearts he lovesme best in the whole world, and he wouldn’thave been ashamed to let me see it at such a moment.And I should have had a precious memory of him forever. You shake your head. Don’t youunderstand me? I thought you seemed to understand,”she said wistfully.

“Peter is a boy,” said John, “andlife is just opening for him. It is a hard sayingto you, but his thoughts are full of the worldhe is entering. There is no room in them justnow for the home he is leaving. That is humannature. If he be sick or sorry later on—­asI know your loving fancy pictures him—­hisheart would turn even then, not to the mother he sawwaving and weeping on the quay, amid all the confusionof departure, but to the mother of his childhood, ofhis happy days of long ago. It may be “—­Johnhesitated, and spoke very tenderly—­“itmay be that his heart will be all the softer then,because he was denied the parting interview he neversought. The young are strangely wayward and impatient.They regret what might have been. They do not,like the old, dwell fondly upon what the gods actuallygranted them. It is you who will sufferfrom this sacrifice, not Peter; that will be someconsolation to you, I suppose, even if it be alsoa disappointment.”

“Ah, how you understand!” said Peter’smother, sadly.

“Perhaps because, as you said just now, I havebeen a young man too,” he said, forcing a smile.“Oh, forgive me, but let me save you; for Ibelieve that if you deserted your husband to-day, youwould sorrow for it to the end of your life.”

“And Peter—­” she murmured.

He came to her side, and straightened himself, andspoke hopefully.

“Give me your last words and your last gifts—­anda letter—­for Peter, and send me in yourstead to-night. I will deliver them faithfully.I will tell him—­for he should be told—­ofthe sore straits in which you find yourself.Set him this noble example of duty, and believe me,it will touch his heart more nearly than even thatsacred parting which you desire.”

Lady Mary held out her hand to him.

“Tell Sir Timothy that I will stay,” shewhispered.

John bent down and kissed the little hand in silence,and with profound respect.

Then he went to the study without looking back.

When he was gone, Lady Mary laid her face upon thebadly painted miniature of Peter, and cried as onewho had lost all hope in life.

CHAPTER VII

“Her didn’t make much account on him whilehim were alive; but now ’ce be dead, ’tisbutivul tu zee how her du take on,” said HappyJack.

There was a soft mist of heat; the long-delayed springcoming suddenly, after storms of cold rain and galesof wind had swept the Youle valley. Two days’powerful sunshine had excited the buds to breaking,and drawn up the tender blades of young grass fromthe soaked earth.

The flowering laurels hung over the shady banks, whereonlarge families of primroses spent their brief andlovely existence undisturbed. The hawthorn putforth delicate green leaves, and the white buds ofthe cherry-trees in the orchard were swelling on theirleafless boughs.

In such summer warmth, and with the concert of buildingbirds above and around, it was strange to see thedead and wintry aspect of the forest trees; stillbare and brown, though thickening with the red promiseof foliage against the April sky.

John Crewys, climbing the lane next the waterfall,had been hailed by the roadside by the toothless,smiling old rustic.

“I be downright glad to zee ’ee come back,zur; ay, that ’a be. What vur du ’eego gadding London ways, zays I, when there be zucha turble lot to zee arter? and the ladyship oop Barracombeways, her bain’t vit var tu du ’t, asarl on us du know. Tis butivul tu zee how hertakes on,” he repeated admiringly.

John glanced uneasily at his companion, who stoodwith downcast eyes.

“Lard, I doan’t take no account on MissZairy,” said the road-mender, leaning on hishoe and looking sharply from the youthful lady to themiddle-aged gentleman. “I’ve knowedher zince her wur a little maid. I used tu giveher lolly-pops. Yu speak up, Miss Zairy, and tell’un if I didn’t.”

“To be sure you did, Father Jack,” saidSarah, promptly.

“Ah, zo ’a did,” said the old man,chuckling. “Zo ’a did, and her ladyshipavore yu. I mind her when her was a littlemaid, and pretty ways her had wi’ her, zameas now. None zo ramshacklin’ as yu du be,Miss Zairy.”

“There’s nobody about that he doesn’tremember as a child,” said Sarah, apologetically.“He’s so old, you see. He doesn’tremember how old he is, and nobody can tell him.But he knows he was born in the reign of George theThird, because his mother told him so; and he remembershis father coming in with news of the Battle of Waterloo,So I think he must be about ninety.”

“Lard, mar like a hunderd year old, I be,”said Happy Jack, offended. “And luke howI du wark yit. Yif I’d ’a give upmy wark, I shude ’a bin in the churchyard alongo’ the idlers, that ’a shude.”He chuckled and winked. “I du be a turblevunny man,” quavered the thin falsetto voice.“They be niver a dune a laughin’ alongo’ my jokes. An’ I du remember ZurTimothy’s vather zo well as Zur Timothy hisself,though ’ee bin dead nigh sixty year. Lard,’ee was a bad ‘un, was y’ ould squire.An old devil. That’s what ’ee was.”

“He only means Sir Timothy’s father hada bad temper,” explained Sarah. “It’squite true.”

“Ah, was it timper?” said Jack, sarcastically.“I cude tell ’ee zum tales on ‘un.There were a right o’ way, zur, acrust the meadthereby, as the volk did claim. And ’azays, ’A’ll putt a stop tu ‘un,’’a zays. And him zat on a style, long zidethe tharn bush, and ’a took ’ee’sgun, and ’a zays, ’A’ll shute vustman are maid as cumes acrust thiccy vield,’’a zays. And us knowed ’un wude du’t tu. And ’un barred the gate, andthere t’was.”

He laughed till the tears ran down his face, brownas gingerbread, and wrinkled as a monkey’s.

“Mr. Crewys is in a hurry, Jack,” saidSarah. “He’s only just arrived fromLondon, and he’s walked all the way from Brawnton.”

“’Tain’t but a stip vur a vine vellarlike ‘ee, and wi’ a vine maiden like yudu be grown, var tu kip ’ee company,” saidHappy Jack. “But ’ee’ll bein a yurry tu git tu Barracombe, and refresh hisself,in arl this turble yeat. When the zun du search,the rain du voller.”

“I dare say you want a glass of beer yourself,”said John, producing a coin from his pocket.

“No, zur, I doan’t,” said the road-mender,unexpectedly. “Beer doan’t agreewi’ my inzide, an’ it gits into my yead,and makes me proper jolly, zo the young volk makegame on me. But I cude du wi’ a drop o’zider zur; and drink your health and the young lady’s,zur, zo ’a cude.”

He winked and nodded as he pocketed the coin; andJohn, half laughing and half vexed, pursued his roadwith Sarah.

“It seems to me that the old gentleman has becomea trifle free and easy with advancing years,”he observed.

“He thinks he has a right to be interested inthe family,” said Sarah, “because of theconnection, you see.”

“The connection?”

“Didn’t you know?” she asked, withwide-open eyes. “Though you were Sir Timothy’sown cousin.”

“A very distant cousin,” said John.

“But every one in the valley knows,” saidSarah, “that Sir Timothy’s father marriedhis own cook, who was Happy Jack’s first cousin.When I was a little girl, and wanted to tease Peter,”she added ingenuously, “I always used to alludeto it. It is the skeleton in their cupboard.We haven’t got a skeleton in our family,”she added regretfully; “least of all the skeletonof a cook.”

John remembered vaguely that there was a story aboutthe second marriage of Sir Timothy the elder.

“So she was a cook!” he said. “Well,what harm?” and he laughed in spite of himself.“I wonder why there is something so essentiallyunromantic in the profession of a cook?”

“Her family went to Australia, and they arequite rich people now: no more cooks than youand me,” said Sarah, gravely. “ButHappy Jack won’t leave Youlestone, though hesays they tempted him with untold gold. And hewouldn’t touch his hat to Sir Timothy, becausehe was his cousin. That was another skeleton.”

“But a very small one,” said John, laughing.

“It might seem small to us, but I’msure it was one reason why Sir Timothy never wentoutside his own gates if he could help it,” saidSarah, shrewdly. “Luckily the cook diedwhen he was born.”

“Why luckily, poor thing?” said John,indignantly.

“She wouldn’t have had much of a time,would she, do you think, with Sir Timothy’ssisters?” asked Sarah, with simplicity.“They were in the schoolroom when their papamarried her, or I am sure they would never have allowedit. Their own mother was a most select person;and little thought when she gave the orders for dinner,and all that, who the old gentleman’s nextwife would be,” said Sarah, giggling. “Theyalways talk of her as the Honourable Rachel,since Lady Crewys, you know, might just aswell mean the cook. I suppose the old squiregot tired of her being so select, and thought he wouldlike a change. He was a character, you know.I often think Peter will be a character when he growsold. He is so disagreeable at times.”

“I thought you were so fond of Peter?”said John, looking amusedly down on the little chatterboxbeside him.

“Not exactly fond of him. It’s justthat I’m used to him,” said Sarah,colouring all over her clear, fresh face, even to thelittle tendrils of red hair on her white neck.

She wore a blue cotton frock, and a brown mushroomhat, with a wreath of wild roses which had somewhattoo obviously been sewn on in a hurry and crookedly;and she looked far more like a village schoolgirl thana young lady who was shortly to make her debutin London society. But he was struck with theextraordinary brilliancy of her complexion, transparentand pure as it was, in the searching sunlight.

“If she were not so round-shouldered—­ifthe features were better—­her expressionsofter,” said John to himself—­“ifdivine colouring were all—­she would bebeautiful.”

But her wide, smiling mouth, short-tipped nose, andcleft chin, conveyed rather the impression of childishaudacity than of feminine charm. The glance ofthose bright, inquisitive eyes was like a wild robin’s,half innocent, half bold. Though her round throatwere white as milk, and though no careless exposureto sun and wind had yet succeeded in dimming the exquisitefairness of her skin, yet the defects and omissionsincidental to extreme youth, country breeding, andlack of discipline, rendered Miss Sarah not whollypleasing in John’s fastidious eyes. Hercarriage was slovenly, her ungloved hands were red,her hair touzled, and her deep-toned voice over-loudand confident. Yet her frankness and her trustfulnesscould not fail to evoke sympathy.

“It is—­Lady Mary that I am fond of,”said the girl, with a yet more vivid blush.

He was touched. “She will miss you, I amsure, when you go to town,” he said kindly.

“If I thought so really, I wouldn’t go,”said Sarah, vehemently. She winked a tear fromher long eyelashes. “But I know it’sonly your good nature. She thinks of nothingand nobody but Peter. And—­and, afterall, when I get better manners, and all that, I shallbe more of a companion to her. I’m veryglad to go, if it wasn’t for leaving her.I like Aunt Elizabeth, whereas mamma and I never didget on. She cares most for the boys, which isvery natural, no doubt, as I was only an afterthought,and nobody wanted me. And Aunt Elizabeth hasalways liked me. She says I amuse her with mysharp tongue.”

“But you will have to be a little careful ofthe sharp tongue when you get to London,” saidJohn, smiling. He was struck by the half-sly,half-acquiescent look that Sarah stole at him frombeneath those long eyelashes. Perhaps her outspokennesswas not so involuntary as he had imagined.

“If I had known you were coming to-day, I wouldhave gone up to say good-bye to Lady Mary last night,”said Sarah, mournfully. “She won’twant me now you are here.”

“I have a thousand and one things to look after.I sha’n’t be in your way,” saidJohn, good-naturedly, “if she is not busy otherwise.”

“Busy!” echoed Sarah. “Shesits so, with her hands in her lap, lookingover the valley. And she has grown, oh, so muchthinner and sadder-looking. I thought you wouldnever come.”

“I have my own work,” said John, hurriedly,“and I thought, besides, she would rather bealone these first few weeks.”

Sarah looked up with a flash in her blue eyes, whichwere so dark, and large-pupilled, and heavily lashed,that they looked almost black. She ground herstrong white teeth together.

“If I were Lady Mary,” she said, “Iwould have slammed the old front door behind me thevery day after Sir Timothy was buried—­andgone away; I would. There she is, like a prisoner,with the old ladies counting every tear she sheds,and adding them up to see if it is enough; and measuringevery inch of crape on her gowns; and finding faultwith all she does, just as they used when Sir Timothywas alive to back them up. And she is afraidto do anything he didn’t like; and she neverlistens to the doctor, the only person in the worldwho’s ever had the courage to fight her battles.”

“The doctor,” said John, sharply.“Has she been ill?”

“No, no.”

“What has he to do with Lady Mary?”said John.

His displeasure was so great that the colour rosein his clean-shaven face, and did not escape littleSarah’s observation, for all her downcast lashes.

“Somebody must go and see her,” said Sarah;“and you were away. And the canon is justnobody, always bothering her for subscriptions; thoughhe is very fond of her, like everybody else,”she added, with compunction. “Dear me,Mr. Crewys, how fast you are walking!”

John had unconsciously quickened his pace so muchthat she had some ado to keep up with him withoutactually running.

“I beg your pardon,” he said.

“It is so hot, and the hill is steep, and Iam rather fat. I dare say I shall fine down asI get older,” said Sarah, apologetically.“It would be dreadful if I grew up like mamma.But I am more like my father, thank goodness, andhe is simply a mass of hard muscle. Idare say even I could beat you on the flat. Butnot up this drive. Doesn’t it look prettyin the spring?”

“It was very different when I left Barracombe,”said John.

He looked round with all a Londoner’s appreciation.

In the sunny corner next the ivy-clad lodge an earlyrhododendron had burst into scarlet bloom. Thesteep drive was warmly walled and sheltered on theside next the hill by horse-chestnuts, witch-elms,tall, flowering shrubs and evergreens, and a varietyof tree-azaleas and rhododendrons which promised ablaze of beauty later in the season.

But the other side of the drive lay in full view ofthe open landscape; rolling grass slopes stretchingdown to the orchards and the valley. Violets,white and blue, scented the air, and the primrosesclustered at the roots of the forest trees.

The gnarled and twisted stems of giant creepers testifiedto the age of Barracombe House. Before the entrancewas a level space, which made a little spring garden,more formal and less varied in its arrangement thanthe terrace gardens on the south front; but no lessgay and bright, with beds of hyacinths, red and whiteand purple, and daffodils springing amidst their bodyguardsof pale, pointed spears.

A wild cherry-tree at the corner of the house hadshowered snowy petals before the latticed window ofthe study; the window whence Sir Timothy had takenhis last look at the western sky, and from which hiswatchful gaze had once commanded the approach to hishouse, and observed almost every human being who venturedup the drive.

On the ridge of the hill above, and in clumps uponthe fertile slopes of the side of the little valley,the young larches rose, newly clothed in that lightand brilliant foliage which darkens almost beforespring gives place to summer.

They found Lady Mary in the drawing-room; the sunshinestreamed towards her through the golden rain of aplanta-genista, which stood on a table in thewestern corner of the bow window. She was lookingout over the south terrace, and the valley and theriver, just as Sarah had said.

He was shocked at her pallor, which was accentuatedby her black dress; her sapphire blue eyes lookedunnaturally large and clear; the little white handsclasped in her lap were too slender; a few silverthreads glistened in the soft, brown hair. Aboveall, the hopeless expression of the sad and gentleface went to John’s heart.

Was the doctor the only man in the world whohad the courage to fight her battles for this fading,grieving woman who had been the lovely Mary Setoun;whom John remembered so careless, so laughing, soinnocently gay?

He was relieved that she could smile as he approachedto greet her.

“I did not guess you would come by the earlytrain,” she said, in glad tones. “But,oh—­you must have walked all the way fromBrawnton! What will James Coachman say?”

“I wanted a walk,” said John, “andI knew you would send to meet me if I let you know.My luggage is at the station. James Coachman,as you call him, can fetch that whenever he will.”

“And I have come to say good-bye,” saidSarah, forlornly.

She watched with jealous eyes their greeting, andLady Mary’s obvious pleasure in John’sarrival, and half-oblivion of her own familiar littlepresence.

When Peter had first gone to school, his mother inher loneliness had almost made a confidanteof little Sarah, the odd, intelligent child who followedher about so faithfully, and listened so eagerly tothose dreamy, half-uttered confidences. She knewthat Lady Mary wept because her boy had left her;but she understood also that when Peter came homefor the holidays he brought little joy to his mother.A self-possessed stripling now walked about the oldhouse, and laid down the law to his mamma—­insteadof that chubby creature in petticoats who had oncebeen Peter.

Lady Mary had dwelt on the far-off days of Peter’sbabyhood very tenderly when she was alone with littleSarah, who sat and nursed her doll, and liked verymuch to listen; she often felt awed, as though someone had died; but she did not connect the story muchwith the Peter of every day, who went fishing andsaid girls were rather a nuisance.

Sarah, too, had had her troubles. She was periodicallybanished to distant schools by a mother who dislikedromping and hoydenish little girls, as much as shedoted on fat and wheezing lap-dogs. But as herfather, on the other hand, resented her banishmentfrom home almost as sincerely as Sarah herself, shewas also periodically sent for to take up her residenceonce more beneath the parental roof. Thus herlife was full of change and uncertainty; but, throughit all, her devotion to Lady Mary never wavered.

She looked at her now with a melancholy air whichsat oddly upon her bright, comical face, and whichwas intended to draw attention to the pathetic factof her own impending departure.

“I only came to say good-bye,” said Sarah,in slightly injured tones.

“Ah! by-the-by, and I have promised not to intrudeon the parting,” said John, with twinkling eyes.

“It is not an eternal farewell,” saidLady Mary, drawing Sarah kindly towards her.

“It may be for years,” said Sarah,rather offended. “My aunt Elizabeth isas good as adopting me. Mamma said I was verylucky, and I believe she is glad to be rid of me.But papa says he shall come and see me in London.Aunt Elizabeth is going to take me to Paris and toScotland, and abroad every winter.”

“Oh, Sarah, how you will be changed when youcome back!” said Lady Mary; and she laugheda little, with a hand on Sarah’s shoulder; butSarah knew that Lady Mary was not thinking very muchabout her, all the same.

“There is no fresh news, John?” she asked.

“Nothing since my last telegram,” he answered.“But I have arranged with the Exchange TelegraphCompany to wire me anything of importance during mystay here.”

“You are always so good,” she said.

Then he took pity on Sarah’s impatience, andleft the little worshipper to the interview with heridol which she so earnestly desired.

“I will go and pay my respects to my cousins,”said John.

But the banqueting-hall was deserted, and gaps inthe row of clogs and goloshes suggested that the oldladies were taking a morning stroll. They hadnot thought it proper to drive, save in a close carriage,since their brother’s death; and on such a warmday of spring weather a close carriage was not invitingto country-bred people.

CHAPTER VIII

John took his hat and stepped out once more upon thedrive, and there met Dr. Blundell, who had left hisdog-cart at the stables, and was walking up to thehouse.

He did not pause to analyze the sentiment of slightannoyance which clouded his usual good humour; butDr. Blundell divined it, with the quickness of anultra-sensitive nature. He showed no signs thathe had done so.

“It was you I came to see,” he said, shakinghands with John. “I heard—­youknow how quickly news spreads here—­thatyou had arrived. I hoped you might spare me afew moments for a little conversation.”

“Certainly,” said John. “Willyou come in, or shall we take a turn?”

“You will be glad of a breath of fresh air afteryour journey,” said the doctor, and he led theway across the south terrace, to a sheltered cornerof the level plateau upon which the house was built,which was known as the fountain garden.

It was rather a deserted garden, thickly surroundedand overgrown by shrubs. Through the immensespreading Portuguese laurels which sheltered it fromthe east, little or no sunshine found its way to thegrey, moss-grown basin and the stone figures supportingit; over which a thin stream of water continuallyflowed with a melancholy rhythm, in perpetual twilight.

A giant ivy grew rankly and thickly about the stonebuttresses of this eastern corner of the house, andaround a great mullioned window which overlooked thefountain garden, and which was the window of LadyMary’s bedroom.

“These shrubberies want thinning,” saidJohn, looking round him rather disgustedly. “Thisplace is reeking with damp. I should like to cutdown some of these poisonous laurels, and let in theair and the sunshine, and open out the view of theBrawnton hills.”

“And why don’t you?” said the doctor,with such energy in his tone that John stopped shortin his pacing of the gravel walk, and looked at him.

The two men were almost as unlike in appearance asin character.

The doctor was nervous, irritable, and intense inmanner; with deep-set, piercing eyes that glowed likehot coal when he was moved or excited. A tall,gaunt man, lined and wrinkled beyond his years; carelessof appearance, so far as his shabby clothes were concerned,yet careful of detail, as was proven by spotless linenand well-preserved, delicate hands.

He was indifferent utterly to the opinion of others,to his own worldly advancement, or to any outer consideration,when in pursuit of the profession he loved; and heknew no other interest in life, save one. Hehad the face of a fanatic or an enthusiast; but alsoof a man whose understanding had been so cultivatedas to temper enthusiasm with judgment.

He had missed success, and was neither resigned tohis disappointment, nor embittered by it.

The gaze of those dark eyes was seldom introspective;rather, as it seemed, did they look out eagerly, sadly,pitifully at the pain and sorrow of the world; a painhe toiled manfully to lessen, so far as his own infinitesimalcorner of the universe was concerned.

John Crewys, on the other hand, was, to the most casualobserver, a successful man; a man whose personalitywould never be overlooked.

There was a more telling force in his composure thanin the doctor’s nervous energy. His cleareyes, his bright, yet steady glance, inspired confidence.

The doctor might have been taken for a poet, but Johnlooked like a philosopher.

He was also, as obviously, in appearance, a man ofthe world, and a Londoner, as the doctor was evidentlya countryman, and a hermit. His advantages overthe doctor included his voice, which was as deep andmusical as the tones of his companion were harsh.

The manner, no less than the matter of John’sspeech, had early brought him distinction.

Nature, rather than cultivation, had bestowed on himthe faculty of conveying the impression he wishedto convey, in tones that charm; and held his auditors,and penetrated ears dulled and fatigued by monotonyand indistinctness.

The more impassioned his pleading, the more utterlyhe held his own emotion in check; the more bitinghis subtly chosen words, the more courteous his manner;now deadly earnest, now humorously scornful, now graciouslyargumentative, but always skilfully and designedlyconvincing.

The doctor, save in the presence of a patient, hadno such control over himself as John Crewys carriedfrom the law-courts, into his life of every day.

“Why don’t you,” he said, in fierytones, “let in air and life, and a view of theoutside world, and as much sunshine as possible intothis musty old house? You have the power, ifyou had only the will.”

“You speak figuratively, I notice,” saidJohn. “I should be much obliged if youwould tell me exactly what you mean.”

He would have answered in warmer and more kindly toneshad Sarah’s words not rung upon his ear.

Was the doctor going to fight Lady Mary’s battlesnow, and with him, of all people in the world?As though there were any one in the world to whomher interests could be dearer than—­

John stopped short in his thoughts, and looked attentivelyat the doctor. His heart smote him. Howpallid was that tired face; and the hollow eyes, howsad and tired too! The doctor had been up allnight, in a wretched isolated cottage, watching aman die—­but John did not know that.

He perceived that this was no meddler, but a man speakingof something very near his heart; no presuming andinterfering outsider who deserved a snub, but a mansuffering from some deep and hidden cause.

The doctor’s secret was known to John long beforehe had finished what he had to say; but he listenedattentively, and gave no sign that this was so.

“She will die,” said Blundell, “ifthis goes on;” and he neither mentioned anyname, nor did John Crewys require him to do so.

The doctor’s words came hurrying out incoherentlyfrom the depths of his anxiety and earnestness.

“She will die if this goes on. There werefew hopes and little enough pleasure in her life before;but what is left to her now? De mortuis nil nisibonum. But just picture to yourself for a moment,man, what her life has been.”

He stopped and drew breath, and strove to speak calmlyand dispassionately.

“I was born in the valley of the Youle,”he said. “My people live in a cottage—­theycall it a house, but it’s just a farm—­onthe river,—­Cullacott. I was a rawmedical student when she came here as a child.Her father was killed in the Afghan War. He hadquarrelled with his uncle, they said, who afterwardssucceeded to the earldom; so she was left to the guardianshipof Sir Timothy, a distant cousin. Every one wassorry for her, because Sir Timothy was her guardian,and because she was a little young thing to be leftto the tender mercies of the two old ladies, who wereold even then. If you will excuse my speakingfrankly about the family”—­John nodded—­“theybullied their brother always; what with their superiorityof birth, and his being so much younger, and so on.Their bringing-up made him what he was, I am sure.He went nowhere; he always fancied people were laughingat him. His feeling about his—­his

mother’s lowly origin seemed to pervade hiswhole life. He exaggerated the importance of birthtill it became almost a mania. If you hadn’tknown the man, you couldn’t have believed ahuman being—­one of the million crawlingunits on the earth—­could be so absurdlyinflated with self-importance. It was pitiful.He went nowhere, and saw no one. I believe hethought that Providence had sent a wife of high rankto his very door to enable him partially to wipe outhis reproach. She looked like a child when shecame, but she shot up very suddenly into womanhood.If you ask me if she was unhappy, I declare I don’tthink so. She had never realized, I should think,what it was to be snubbed or found fault with in herlife. She was a motherless child, and had livedwith her old grandfather and her young father, andhad been very much spoilt. And they were bothsnatched away from her, as it were, in a breath; andshe alone in the world, with an uncle who was onlyglad to get rid of her to her stranger guardian.Well,—­she was too young and too brightand too gay to be much downcast for all the old womencould do. She laughed at their scolding, andwhen they tried severity she appealed to Sir Timothy.The old doctor who was my predecessor here told meat the time that he thought she had bewitched SirTimothy; but afterwards he said that he believed itwas only that Sir Timothy had made up his mind eventhen to quarter the Setoun arms with his own.Anyway, he went against his sisters for the firstand only time in his life, and they learnt that LadyMary was not to be interfered with. Whether itwas gratitude or just the childish satisfaction oftriumphing over her two enemies, I can’t tell,but she married him in less than two years after shecame to live at Barracombe. The old ladies didn’tknow whether to be angry or pleased. They wantedhim to marry, and they wanted his wife to be well-born,no doubt; but to have a mere child set over them!Well, the marriage took place in London.”

“I was present,” said John.

“The people here said things about it that mayhave got round to Sir Timothy; but I don’t know.He never came down to the village, except to church,where he sat away from everybody, in the gallery curtainedoff. Anyway, he wouldn’t have the weddingdown here. He invited all her relatives, andnone of them had a word to say. It wasn’tas if she were an heiress. I believe she hadnext to nothing. She was just like a child, laughing,and pleased at getting married, and with all her finery,perhaps,—­or at getting rid of her lessonswith the old women may be,—­and the thoughtof babies of her own. Who knows what a girl thinksof?” said the doctor, harshly. “Ididn’t see her again for a long time after.But then I came down; the Brawnton doctor was gettingold, and it was a question whether I should succeedhim or go on in London, where I was doing well enough.And—­and I came here,” said the doctor,abruptly.

John nodded again. He filled in the gaps of thedoctor’s narrative for himself, and understood.

“She had changed very much. All the gaietyand laughter gone. But she was wrapt up in thechild as I never saw any woman wrapt up in a bratbefore or since; and I’ve known some that werepretty ridiculous in that way,” said the doctor,and his voice shook more than ever. “Itwas—­touching, for she was but a child herself;and Peter, between you and me, was an unpromisingdoll for a child to play with. He was ugly andill-tempered, and he wouldn’t be caressed, ordressed up, or made much of, from the first minutehe had a will of his own. As he grew bigger hewas for ever having rows with his father, and his motherwas for ever interceding for him. He was idleat school; but he was a manly boy enough over gamesand sport, and a capital shot. Anyway, she managedto be proud of him, God knows how. I shouldn’twonder if this war was the making of him, though,poor chap, if he’s spared to see the end ofit all.”

“I have no doubt the discipline will do hima great deal of good,” said John, dryly.

It cannot be said that his brief interview at Southamptonhad impressed John with a favourable opinion of thesulky and irresponsive youth, who had there listenedto his mother’s messages with lowering browand downcast eye. Peter had betrayed no sign ofemotion, and almost none of gratitude for John’shurried and uncomfortable journey to convey that message.

“A few hard knocks will do you no harm, my youngfriend; and I almost wish you may get them,”John had said to himself on his homeward journey;dreading, yet expecting, the news that awaited himat Peter’s home, and for which he had done hisbest to prepare the boy.

“Too much consideration hitherto has ruinedhim,” said the doctor, shortly. “Butit’s not of Peter I’m thinking, one wayor the other. From the time he went first toschool, she’s had to depend entirely on herown resources—­and what are they?”

He paused, as though to gather strength and energyfor his indictment.

“From the time she was brought here—­exceptfor that one outing and a change to Torquay, I believe,after Peter’s birth—­she has scarceset foot outside Barracombe. Sir Timothy wouldnot, so he was resolved she should not. His sisters,who have as much cultivation as that stone figure,disapproved of novel-reading—­or of any otherreading, I should fancy—­and he followedsuit. Books are almost unknown in this house.The library bookcases were locked. Sir Timothyopened them once in a while, and his sisters dustedthe books with their own hands; it was against traditionto handle such valuable bindings. He hated music,and the piano was not to be played in his presence.Have you ever tried it? I’m told you’remusical. It belonged to Lady Belstone’smother, the Honourable Rachel. That is her harpwhich stands in the corner of the hall. Her daughter

once tinkled a little, I believe; but the prejudicesof the ruling monarch were religiously obeyed.Music was taboo at Barracombe. Dancingwas against their principles, and theatres they regardwith horror, and have never been inside one in theirlives. Nothing took Sir Timothy to London butbusiness; and if it were possible to have the businessbrought to Barracombe, his solicitor, Mr. Crawley,visited him here.”

The doctor spoke in lower tones, as he recurred tohis first theme.

“I don’t think she found out for years,or realized what a prisoner she was. They caughtand pinned her down so young. There are no verynear neighbours—­I mean, not the sort ofpeople they would recognize as neighbours—­exceptthe Hewels. Youlestone is such an out-of-the-wayplace, and Sir Timothy was never on intimate termswith any one. Mrs. Hewel is a fool—­therewas only little Sarah whom Lady Mary made a pet of—­butshe had no friends. Sir Timothy and his sistersmade visiting such a stiff and formal business, thatit was no wonder she hated paying calls; the moreespecially as it could lead to nothing. He wouldnot entertain; he grudged the expense. I was presentat a scene he once made because a large party droveover from a distant house and stayed to tea.He said he could not entertain the county. Shedared ask no one to her house—­she, whowas so formed and fitted by nature to charm and attract,and enjoy social intercourse.” His voicefaltered. “They stole her youth,”he said.

“What do you want me to do?” said John,though he was vaguely conscious that he understoodfor what the doctor was pleading.

He sat down by the fountain; and the doctor, restinga mended boot on the end of the bench, leant on hisbony knee, and looked down wistfully at John’sthoughtful face, broad brow, and bright, intent eyes.

“You are a very clever man, Mr. Crewys,”he said humbly. “A man of the world, successful,accomplished, and, I believe, honest”—­hespoke with a simplicity that disarmed offence—­“orI should not have ventured as I have ventured.Somehow you inspire me with confidence. I believeyou can save her. I believe you could find a wayto bring back her peace of mind; the interest in life—­thegaiety of heart—­that is natural to her.If I were in your place, not the two old women—­notSir Timothy’s ghost—­not that poorconceited slip of a lad who may be shot to-morrow—­wouldstand in my way. I would bring back the colourto her cheek, and the light to her eye, and the musicto her voice—­”

“Whilst her boy is in danger?” John asked,almost scornfully. He thought he knew Lady Marybetter than the doctor did, after all.

“I tell you nothing would stop me,”said Blundell, vehemently. “Before I wouldlet her fret herself to death—­afraid tobreak the spells that have been woven round her, boundas she is, hand and foot, with the prejudices of thedead—­I would—­I would—­takeher to South Africa myself,” he said brilliantly.“The voyage would bring her back to life.”

John got up. “That is an idea,” hesaid. He paused and looked at the doctor.“You have known her longer than I. Have you saidnothing to her of all this?”

The doctor smiled grimly. “Mr. Crewys,”he said, “some time since I spoke my mind—­athing I am over-apt to do—­of Peter,and to him. The lad has forgiven me; heis a man, you see, with all his faults. But LadyMary, though she has all the virtues of a woman, isalso a mother. A woman often forgives; a mother,never. Don’t forget.”

“I will not,” said John.

“And you’ll do it—­”

“Use the unlimited authority that has been placedin my hands, by improving this tumble-down, overgrownplace?” said John, slowly. “Let inlight, air, and sunshine to Barracombe, and do my bestto brighten Lady Mary’s life, without referenceto any one’s prejudices, past or present?”

“You’ve got the idea,” said thedoctor, joyfully. “Will you carry it out?”

“Yes,” said John.

CHAPTER IX

The new moon brightened above the rim of the oppositehill, and touched the river below with silver reflections.On the grass banks sloping away beneath the terracegardens, sheets of bluebells shone almost whitelyon the grass. The silent house rose against thedark woods, whitened also here and there by the blossomof wild cherry-trees.

Lady Mary stepped from the open French windows ofthe drawing-room into the still, scented air of theApril night. She stood leaning against the stonebalcony, and gazing at the wonderful panorama of thevalley and overlapping hills; where the little riverthreaded its untroubled course between daisied meadowsand old orchards and red crumbling banks.

A broad-shouldered figure appeared in the window,and a man’s step crunched the gravel of thepath which Lady Mary had crossed.

“For once I have escaped, you see,” shesaid, without turning round. “They willnot venture into the night air. Sometimes I thinkthey will drive me mad—­Isabella and Georgina.”

“Mary!” cried a shrill voice from thedrawing-room, “how can you be so imprudent!John, how can you allow her!”

John stepped back to the window. “It isvery mild,” he said. “Lady Mary likesthe air.”

There was a note of authority in his tone which somehowimpressed Lady Belstone, who withdrew, muttering toherself, into the warm lamplight of the drawing-room.

Perhaps the two old ladies were to be pitied, too,as they sat together, but forlorn, sincerely shockedand uneasy at their sister-in-law’s behaviour.

“Dear Timothy not dead three months, and shesitting out there in the night air, as he would neverhave permitted, talking and laughing; yes, I actuallyhear her laughing—­with John.”

“There is no telling what she may do now,”said Miss Crewys, gloomily.

“I declare it is a judgment, Georgina.Why did Timothy choose to trust a perfect stranger—­eventhough John is a cousin—­with the care ofhis wife and son, and his estate, rather than hisown sisters?”

“It was a gentleman’s work,” saidMiss Crewys.

“Gentleman’s fiddlesticks! Couldn’told Crawley have done it? I should hope he isas good a lawyer as young John any day,” saidLady Belstone, tossing her head. “But Ihave often noticed that people will trust any chancestranger with the property they leave behind, ratherthan those they know best.”

“Isabella,” said Miss Crewys, “blamenot the dead, and especially on a moonlight night.It makes my blood run cold.”

“I am blaming nobody, Georgina; but I will saythat if poor Timothy thought proper to leave everythingelse in the hands of young John, he might have consideredthat you and I had a better right to the Dower Housethan poor dear Mary, who, of course, must live withher son.”

“I am far from wishing or intending to leavemy home here, Isabella,” said Miss Crewys.“It is very different in your case. Youforfeited the position of daughter of the house whenyou married. But I have always occupied my oldplace, and my old room.”

This was a sore subject. On Lady Belstone’sreturn as a widow, to the home of her fathers, shehad been torn with anxiety and indecision regardingher choice of a sleeping apartment. Sentimentdictated her return to her former bedroom; but shewas convinced that the married state required a domicileon the first floor. Etiquette prevailed, andshe descended; but the eighty-year-old legs of MissCrewys still climbed the nursery staircase, and sherevenged herself for her inferior status by insisting,in defiance of old associations, that her maid shouldoccupy the room next to her own, which her sister hadabandoned.

“For my part, I can sleep in one room as wellas another, provided it be comfortable and appropriate,”said Lady Belstone, with dignity. “Thereare very pleasant rooms in the Dower House, and ourgreat-aunts managed to live there in comfort, andyet keep an eye on their nephew here, as I have alwaysbeen told. I don’t know why we should objectto doing the same. You have never tried beingmistress of your own house, Georgina, but I can assureyou it has its advantages; and I found them out asa married woman.”

“A married woman has her husband to look afterher,” said Miss Crewys. “It is verydifferent for a widow.”

“You are for ever throwing my widowhood in myteeth, Georgina,” said Lady Belstone, plaintively.“It is not my fault that I am a widow. Idid not murder the admiral.”

“I don’t say you did, Isabella,”said Georgina, grimly; “but he only survivedhis marriage six months.”

“It is nice to be silent sometimes,” saidLady Mary.

“Does that mean that I am to go away?”said John, “or merely that I am not to speakto you?”

She laughed a little. “Neither. Itmeans that I am tired of being scolded.”

“I have wondered now and then,” said John,deliberately, “why you put up with it?”

“I suppose—­because I can’thelp it,” she said, startled.

“You are a free agent.”

“You mean that I could go away?” she said,in a low voice. “But there is only oneplace I should care to go to now.”

“To South Africa?”

“You always understand,” she said gratefully.

“Supposing this—­this ghastly warshould not be over as soon as we all hope,”he said, rather huskily, “I could escort youmyself, in a few weeks’ time, to the Cape.Or—­or arrange for your going earlier ifyou desired, and if I could not get away. Probablyyou would get no further than Cape Town; but it mightbe easier for you waiting there—­than here.”

“I shall thank you, and bless you always, forthinking of it,” she interrupted, softly; “butthere is something—­that I never told anybody.”

He waited.

“After Peter had the news of his father’sdeath,” said Lady Mary, with a sob in her throat,“you did not know that he—­he telegraphedto me, from Madeira. He foresaw immediately,I suppose, whither my foolish impulses would leadme; and he asked me—­I should rather sayhe ordered me—­under no circ*mstances whateverto follow him out to South Africa.”

John remembered the doctor’s warning, and saidnothing.

“So, you see—­I can’t go,”said Lady Mary.

There was a pause.

“I am bound to say,” said John, presently,“that, in Peter’s place, I should nothave liked my mother, or any woman I loved, to comeout to the seat of war. He showed only a propercare for you in forbidding it. Perhaps I am lesscourageous than he, in thinking more of the presentbenefit you would derive from the voyage and the changeof scene, than of the perils and discomforts whichmight await you, for aught we can foretell now, atthe end of it. Peter certainly showed judgmentin telegraphing to you.”

“Do you really think so? That it was carefor me that made him do it?” she asked.A distant doubtful joy sounded in her voice. “SomehowI never thought of that. I remembered his olddislike of being followed about, or taken care of,or—­or spied upon, as he used to call it.”

“Boys just turning into men are often sensitiveon those points,” said John, heedful alwaysof the doctor’s warning.

“It is odd I did not see the telegram in thatlight,” said poor Lady Mary. “I mustread it again.”

She spoke as hopefully as though she had not readit already a hundred times over, trying to read lovingmeanings, that were not there, between the curt andperemptory lines.

“It is not odd,” thought John to himself;“it is because you knew him too well;”and he wondered whether his explanation of Peter’saction were charitable, or merely unscrupulous.

But Lady Mary was not really deceived; only very gratefulto the man who was so tender of heart, so tactfulof speech, as to make it seem even faintly possiblethat she had misjudged her boy.

She said to herself that parents were often unreasonable,expecting impossibilities, in their wild desire forperfection in their offspring. An outsider, beingunprejudiced by anxiety, could judge more fairly.John found that the telegram, which had almost brokenher heart, was reasonable and justified; nay, eventhat it displayed a dutiful regard for her safetyand comfort, of which no one but a stranger couldpossibly have suspected Peter. She was gratefulto John. It was a relief and joy to feel thatit was she who was to blame, and not Peter, whoseheart was in the right place, after all. Andyet, though John was so clever and had such an experienceof human nature, it was the doctor who had put thekey into his hands, which presently unlocked LadyMary’s confidence.

“You mustn’t think, John, that I don’tunderstand what it will be like later, when Petercomes of age. Of course this house will be his,and he is not the kind of young man to be tied to hismother’s apron-string. He always wantedto be independent.”

“It is human nature,” said John.

“I am not blind to his faults,” said LadyMary, humbly, “though they all think so.It is of little use to try and hide them from you,who will see them for yourself directly my darlingcomes back. I pray God it may be soon. Ofcourse he is spoilt; but I am to blame, because Imade him my idol.”

“An only son is always more or less spoilt,”said John. He remembered his own boyhood, andsmiled sardonically in the darkness. “Hewill grow out of it. He will come back a manafter this experience.”

“Yes, yes, and he will want to live his life,and I—­I shall have to learn to do withouthim, I know,” she said. “I must learnwhile he is away to—­to depend on myself.It is not likely that—­that a woman of myage should have much in common with a manly boy likePeter. Sometimes I wonder whether I really understandmy boy at all.”

“It is my belief,” said John, “thatno generation is in perfect touch with another.Each stands on a different rung of the ladder of Time.You may stoop to lend a helping hand to the younger,or reach upwards to take a farewell of the older.But there must be a looking down or a looking up.No face-to-face talk is possible except upon the samelevel. No real and true comradeship. Thevery word implies a marching together, under the samecirc*mstances, to a common goal; and how can we, whohave to be the commanding officers of the young, betheir true companions?” he said, lightly andcheerfully.

“I dare say I have expected impossibilities,”said Lady Mary, as though reproaching herself.“It comforts me to think so. But I havehad time to reflect on many things since—­February.”She paused. “I don’t deny I havetried to make plans for the future. But thereare these days to be lived through first—­untilhe comes home.”

“I was going to propose,” said John, “that,if agreeable to you, I should spend my summer andautumn holiday here, instead of going, as usual, toSwitzerland.”

“I should be only too glad,” she said,in tones of awakened interest. “But surely—­itwould be very dull for you?”

“Not at all. There is a great deal to bedone, and in accordance with my trust I am bound toset about it,” said John. “I proposeto spend the next few days in examining the reportsof the surveys that have already been made, and injudging of their accuracy for myself. When Ireturn here later, I could have the work begun, andthen for some time I could superintend matters personally,which is always a good thing.”

“Do you mean—­the woods?” sheasked. “I know they have been neglected.Sir Timothy would never have a tree cut down; but theyare so wild and beautiful.”

“There are hundreds of pounds’ worth oftimber perishing for want of attention. I amresponsible for it all until Peter comes of age,”said John, “as I am for the rest of his inheritance.It is part of my trust to hand over to him his houseand property in the best order I can, according tomy own judgment. I know something of forestry,”he added, simply; “you know I was not bred aco*ckney. I was to have been a Hertfordshire squire,on a small scale, had not circ*mstances necessitatedthe letting of my father’s house when he died.”

“But it will be yours again some day?”

“No,” said John, quietly; “it hadto be sold—­afterwards.”

He gave no further explanation, but Lady Mary recollectedinstantly the abuse that had been showered on hismother, by her sisters-in-law, when John was reportedto have sacrificed his patrimony to pay her debts.

“I rather agree with you about the woods,”she said. “It vexes me always to see abeautiful young tree, that should be straight andstrong, turned into a twisted dwarf, in the shade ofthe overgrowth and the overcrowding. The woodmanwill be delighted; he is always grumbling.”

“It is not only the woods. There is thehouse.”

“I suppose it wants repairing?” said LadyMary. “Hadn’t that better be putoff till Peter comes home?”

“I cannot neglect my trust,” said John,gravely; “besides,” he added, “thestate of the roof is simply appalling. Many ofthe beams are actually rotten. Then there arethe drains; they are on a system that should not betolerated in these days. Nothing has been donefor over sixty years, and I can hardly say how longbefore.”

“Won’t it all cost a great deal of money?”said Lady Mary.

“A good deal; but there is a very large sumof money lying idle, which, as the will directs, maybe applied to the general improvement of the houseand estate during Peter’s minority; but overwhich he is to have no control, should it remain unspent,until he comes of age. That is to say, it willthen—­or what is left of it—­beinvested with the rest of his capital, which is allstrictly tied up. So, as old Crawley says, itwill relieve Peter’s income in the future, ifwe spend what is necessary now, according to our powers,in putting his house and estate in order. Itwould have to be done sooner or later, most assuredly.Sir Timothy, as you must know,” said John, gently,“did not spend above a third of his actual income;and, so far as Mr. Crawley knows, spent nothing atall on repairs, beyond jobs to the village carpenterand mason.”

“I did not know,” said Lady Mary.“He always told me we were very badly off—­forour position. I know nothing of business.I did not attend much to Mr. Crawley’s explanationsat the time.”

“You were unable to attend to him then,”said John; “but now, I think, you should understandthe exact position of affairs. Surely my cousinsmust have talked it over?”

“Isabella and Georgina never talk business beforeme. You forget I am still a child in their eyes,”she said, smiling. “I gathered that theywere disappointed poor Timothy had left them nothing,and that they thought I had too much; that is all.”

“Their way of looking at it is scarcely in accordancewith justice,” said John, shrugging his shoulders.“They each have ten thousand pounds left tothem by their father in settlement. This was toreturn to the estate if they died unmarried or childless.You have two thousand a year and the Dower House foryour life; but you forfeit both if you re-marry.”

“Of course,” said Lady Mary, indifferently.“I suppose that is the usual thing?”

“Not quite, especially when your personal propertyis so small.”

“I didn’t know I had any personal property.”

“About five hundred pounds a year; perhaps alittle more.”

“From the Setouns!” she cried.

“From your father. Surely you must haveknown?”

Lady Mary was silent a moment. “No; I didn’tknow,” she said presently. “It doesn’tmatter now, but Timothy never told me. I thoughtI hadn’t a farthing in the world. He nevermentioned money matters to me at all.”Then she laughed faintly. “I could havelived all by myself in a cottage in Scotland, withoutbeing beholden to anybody—­on five hundredpounds a year, couldn’t I?”

“There is no reason you should not have a cottagein Scotland now, if you fancy one,” said John,cheerfully.

“The only memories I have in the world, outsidemy life in this place, are of my childhood at home,”she said.

John suddenly realized how very, very limited herexperiences had been, and wondered less at the almostchildish simplicity which characterized her, and whichin no way marred her natural graciousness and dignity.Lady Mary did not observe his silence, because herown thoughts were busy with a scene which memory hadpainted for her, and far away from the moonlit valleyof the Youle. She saw a tall, narrow, turretedbuilding against a ruddy sunset sky; a bare ridge ofhills crowned sparsely with ragged Scotch firs; asea of heather which had seemed boundless to a childishimagination.

“I could not go back to Scotland now,”she said, with that little wistful-sounding, patientsob which moved John to such pity that he could scarcecontain himself; “but some day, when I am free—­whennobody wants me.”

“London is the only place worth living in justnow, whilst we are in such terrible anxiety,”he said boldly. “At least there are thepapers and telegrams all day long, and none of thisdreary, long waiting between the posts; and thereare other things—­to distract one’sattention, and keep up one’s courage.”

“I do not know what Isabella and Georgina wouldsay,” said Lady Mary.

“But you—­would you not care to come?”

“Oh!” she said, half sobbing, “itis because I am afraid of caring too much. Lifeseems to call so loudly to me now and then; as thoughI were tired of sitting alone, and looking up thevalley and down the valley. I know it all byheart. It would be fresh life; the stir, themovement; other people, fresh ideas, beautiful newthings to see. But, indeed, you must not temptme.” There was an accent of yearning inher tone, a hint of eager anticipation, as of a goodtime coming; a dream postponed, which she would neverthelessbe willing one day to enjoy. “I mustn’tgo anywhere; I couldn’t—­until my boycomes home, if he ever comes home,” she added,under her breath.

“But when he comes home safe and sound, as pleaseGod he may,” said John, cheerfully, “why,then you have a great deal of lost time to make up.”

“Ah, yes!” said Lady Mary, and again thatwistful note of longing sounded. “I havethought sometimes I would not like to die before Ihave seen my birthplace once more. And there is—­Italy,”she said, as though the one word conveyed every visionof earthly beauty which mortal could desire to behold—­as,indeed, it does. And again she added, “ButI don’t know what my sisters-in-law would say.It would be against all the traditions.”

“Surely Lady Belstone, at least, must be lessabsurdly narrow-minded,” said John, almost impatiently.

“Shall I tell you the history of her marriage?”said Lady Mary.

Her pretty laugh rang out softly in the darkness,and thrilled John’s heart, and shocked yet furtherthe old ladies who sat within, straining their earsfor the sound of returning footsteps.

“It took place about forty years ago or less.A cousin of her mother’s, Sir William Belstone,came to spend a few days here. I believe thepoor man invited himself, because he happened to bestaying in the neighbourhood. He was a gallantold sailor, and very polite to both his cousins; andone day Isabella interpreted his compliments intoa proposal of marriage. Georgina has given meto understand that no one was ever more astoundedand terrified than the admiral when he found himselfengaged to Isabella. But apparently he was achivalrous old gentleman, and would not disappointher. It is really rather a sad little story,because he died of heart disease very soon after themarriage. Old Mrs. Ash, the housekeeper, alwaysdeclares her mistress came home even more old-maidishin her ways than she went away, and that she quarrelledwith the poor admiral from morning till night.Perhaps that is why she has never lightened her garbof woe. And she makes my life a burden to me becauseI won’t wear a cap. Ah! how heartless itall sounds, and yet how ridiculous! Dear CousinJohn, haven’t I bored you? Let us go in.”

With characteristic energy John Crewys set in handthe repairs which he had declared to be so necessary.

The late squire had apparently been as well awareof the neglected state of his ancestral halls as ofhis tangled and overgrown woods; but he had also,it seemed, been unable to make up his mind to takeany steps towards amending the condition of either—­orto part with his ever-increasing balance at his bankers’.

Sir Timothy had carried both his obstinacy and hisdullness into his business affairs.

The family solicitor, Mr. Crawley, backed up the newadministrator with all his might.

“Over sixty thousand pounds uninvested, andlying idle at the bank,” he said, lifting hishands and eyes, “and one long, miserable grumblingover the expense of keeping up Barracombe. Onegood tenant after another lost because the landlordwould keep nothing in repair; gardener after gardenerleaving for want of a shilling increase in weeklywages. In case Sir Peter should turn out to resemblehis father, we had best not let the grass grow underour feet, Mr. Crewys,” said the shrewd gentleman,chuckling, “but take full advantage of the powersentrusted to you for the next two years and a quarter.Sir Peter, luckily, does not come of age until October,1902.”

“That is just what I intend to do,” saidJohn.

“Odd, isn’t it,” said the lawyer,confidentially, “how often a man will put unlimitedpower into the hands of a comparative stranger, andleave his own son tied hand and foot? Not a pennyof all this capital will Sir Peter ever have the handlingof. Perhaps a good job too. Oh, dear! whenI look at the state of his affairs in general, I feelpositively guilty, and ashamed to have had even thenominal management of them. But what could aman do under the circ*mstances? He paid for myadvice, and then acted directly contrary to it, andthought he had done a clever thing, and outwittedhis own lawyer. But now we shall get things abit straight, I hope. What about buying SpeccotFarm, Mr. Crewys? It’s been our Naboth’svineyard for many a day; but we haggled over the price,and couldn’t make up our minds to give what thefarmer wants. He’ll have to sell in theend, you know; but I suppose he could hold out a fewyears longer if we don’t give way.”

“He’s been to me already,” saidJohn. “The price he asked is no doubt abit above its proper value; but it’s accommodationland, and it would be disappointing if it slippedthrough our fingers. I propose to offer him prettynearly what he asks.”

“He’ll take it,” said Mr. Crawley,with satisfaction. “I could never makeSir Timothy see that it wouldn’t pay the fellowto turn out unless he got something over and abovethe value of his mortgages.”

“The next thing I want you to arrange is thepurchase of those twenty acres of rough pasture andgorse, right in the centre of the property,”said John, “rented by the man who lives outsideYoulestone, at what they call Pott’s farm, forhis wretched, half-starved beasts to graze upon.He’s saved us the trouble of exterminating therabbits there, I notice.”

“He’s an inveterate poacher. A goodthing to give him no further excuse to hang aboutthe place. What do you propose to do?”

“Compensate him, burn the gorse, cut the bracken,and plant larch. There are enough picturesquecommons on the top of the hill, where the soil ispoor, and land is cheap. We don’t want themin the valley. Now I propose to give our mindsto the restoration of the house, the drains, the stables,and the home farm. Here are my estimates.”

Though Mr. Crawley was so loyal a supporter of theregent of Barracombe, yet John’s projected improvementswere far too thorough-going to gain the approval ofthe pottering old retainers of the Crewys family,though they were unable to question his knowledgeor his judgment.

“I telled ’im tu du things by the littles,”said the woodman, who was kept at work marking treesand saplings as he had never worked before; thoughJohn was generous of help, and liberal of pay.“But lard, he bain’t one tu covet nobody’sgude advice. I was vair terrified tu zee arlhe knowed about the drees. The squoire ’eewur like a babe unbarn beside ’un. He lukesme straight in the eyes, and ‘Luke,’ sezzee,’us ‘a’ got tu git the place invamous arder vur young Zur Peter,’ sezzee, ‘An’I be responsible, and danged but what ‘a’lldu’t,’ ‘ee zays. An’I touched my yead, zo, and I zays, ‘Very gude,zur,’ ’a zays. ‘An’ zo‘twill be, yu may depend on’t.’”

Perhaps the unwonted stir and bustle, the coming andgoing of John Crewys, the confusion of workmen, thenovel interest of renovating and restoring the oldhouse, helped to brace and fortify Lady Mary duringthe months which followed; months, nevertheless, ofsuspense and anxiety, which reduced her almost toa shadow of her former self.

For Peter’s career in South Africa proved anadventurous one.

He had the good luck to distinguish himself in a skirmishalmost immediately after his arrival, and to win notonly the approval of his noble relative and commander,but his commission. His next exploit, however,ended rather disastrously, and Peter found himselfa prisoner in the now historic bird-cage at Pretoria,where he spent a dreary, restless, and perhaps notwholly unprofitable time, in the society of men greatlyhis superior in soldierly and other qualities.

John feared that his mother’s resolution notto follow her boy must inevitably be broken when thenews of his capture reached Barracombe; but perhapsPeter’s letters had repeated the peremptory injunctionsof his telegram, for she never proposed to take thejourney to South Africa.

The wave of relief and thankfulness that swept overthe country, when the release of the imprisoned officersbecame known, restored not a little of Lady Mary’snatural courage and spirits. She became morehopeful about her son, and more interested daily inthe beautifying and restoration of his house.

She said little in her letters to Peter of the workat Barracombe, for John advised her that the boy wouldprobably hardly understand the necessity for it, andshe herself was doubtful of Peter’s approvaleven if he had understood. She had too much intelligenceto be doubtful of John’s wisdom, or of Mr. Crawley’szeal for his interest.

The letters she received were few and scanty, forPeter was but a poor correspondent, and he made littlecomment on the explanatory letter regarding his father’swill which John and Mr. Crawley thought proper tosend him. The solicitor was justly indignant atSir Peter’s neglect to reply to this carefullythought-out and faultlessly indited epistle.

“He is just a chip of the old block,”said Mr. Crawley.

But his mother divined that Peter was partly offendedat his own utter exclusion from any share of responsibility,and partly too much occupied to give much attentionto any matter outside his soldiering. She saidto herself that he was really too young to be troubledwith business; and she began to believe, as the workat Barracombe advanced, that the results of so muchplanning and forethought must please him, after all.The consolation of working in his interests was delightfulto her. Her days were filling almost miraculously,as it seemed to her, with new occupations, fresh hopes,and happier ideas, than the idle dreaming which wasall that had hitherto been permitted to her.John desired her help, or her suggestions, at everyturn, and constantly consulted her taste. Herartistic instinct for decoration was hardly less strongthan his own, though infinitely less cultivated.He sent her the most engrossing and delightful booksto repair the omission, and he brought her plans anddrawings, which he begged her to copy for him.The days which had hung so heavily on her hands werescarcely long enough.

The careful restoration of the banqueting-hall necessitatednew curtains and chair-covers. Lady Mary lookeddoubtfully at John when this matter had been decided,and then at the upholstery of the drawing-rooms facingthe south terrace.

The faded magenta silk, tarnished gilded mirrors,and gold-starred wall-paper which decorated theseapartments had offended her eye for years. Johnlaughed at her hesitation, and advised her to consulther sisters-in-law on the subject; and this settledthe question.

“They would choose bottle-green” she said,in horror; and she salved her conscience by payingfor the redecoration of the drawing-rooms out of herown pocket.

John discovered that Lady Mary had never drawn a chequein her life, and that Mr. Crawley’s lessonsin the management of her own affairs filled her withas much awe as amusem*nt.

* * * * *

So the old order changed and gave place to the newat Barracombe; and the summer grew to winter, andwinter to summer again; and Peter did not return,as he might, with the corps in which he had the honourto serve.

Want of energy was not one of his defects; he wasa strong, hardy young man, a fine horseman and a goodshot, and eager to gain distinction for himself.He passed into a fresh corps of newly raised Yeomanry,and went through the Winter Campaign of 1901, fromApril to September, without a scratch. His motherimplored him to come home; but Peter’s letterswere contemptuous of danger. If he were to beshot, plenty of better fellows than he had been donefor, he wrote; and coming home to go to Oxford, orwhatever his guardian might be pleased to order himto do, was not at all in his line, when he was reallywanted elsewhere.

To do him justice, he had no idea how boastfully hisletters read; he had not the art of expressing himselfon paper, and he was always in a hurry. The momentswhen he was moved by a vague affection for his home,or his mother, were seldom the actual moments whichhe devoted to correspondence; and the passing ideasof the moment were all Peter knew how to convey.

Lady Mary could not but be aware of her son’scomplete independence of her, but the realizationof it no longer filled her with such dismay as formerly.Her outlook upon life was widening insensibly.The young soldier’s luck deserted him at last.Barely six weeks before the declaration of peace,Peter was wounded at Rooiwal. The War Office,and the account of the action in the newspapers, reportedhis injuries as severe; but a telegram from Peterhimself brought relief, and even rejoicing, to Barracombe—­

“Shot in the arm. Doing splendidly.Invalided home. Sailing as soon as doctor allows.”

CHAPTER X

“I never complain, Canon Birch,” saidLady Belstone, resignedly; “but it is a greatrelief, as I cannot deny, to open my mind to you, whoknow so well what this place used to be like in mydear brother’s time.”

The canon had been absent from Youlestone on a longholiday, and on his return found that the workmen,who had reigned over Barracombe for nearly two years,had at length departed.

The inhabitants had been hunted from one part of thehouse to another as the work proceeded; but now theusual living-rooms had been restored to their occupants,and peace and order prevailed, where all had beennoise and confusion.

“I should not have known the place,” saidthe canon, gazing round him.

“Nor I. We make a point of saying nothing,”said Miss Crewys, pathetically, “but it’salmost impossible not to look now and then.”

“Speak for yourself, Georgina,” said hersister, with asperity. “One can’tlook furniture out of one room and into another.”

The old ladies sat forlornly in their corner by thegreat open hearth, whereon the logs were piled inreadiness for a fire, because they often found theearly June evenings chilly. But the sofa withbroken springs, which they specially affected, hadbeen mended, and recovered; and was no longer, theysadly agreed, near so comfortable as in its crippledpast.

The banqueting-hall, which was the very heart of BarracombeHouse, had been carefully and skilfully restored toits ancient dignity.

The paint and graining, which had disfigured its mightybeams and solid panelling, had been removed; and thefreshly polished oak shone forth in its noble age,shorn of all tawdry disguise.

The spaces of wall and roof between the beams, andabove the panels, were now of a creamy tint not farremoved, as the two indignant critics pointed out,from common whitewash. A great screen of Spanishleather sheltered the door from the vestibule, andsecured somewhat more privacy for the hall as a sitting-room.

The Vandyck commanded the staircase, attracting immediateattention, as it faced the principal entry. Inthe wide space between the two great windows weretwo portraits of equal size; the famous Sir PeterCrewys, by Lely, painted to resemble, as nearly aspossible, his royal master, in dress and attitude;and his brother Timothy, by Kneller.

Farmer Timothy’s small, shrewd, grey eyes appearedto follow the gazer all over the hall; and his soberwearing apparel, a plain green coat without collaror cape, contrasted effectively with the cavalier’slaced doublet and feathered hat.

Gone were the Early Victorian portraits; gone thebig glass cases of stuffed birds and weasels; gonethe round mahogany table, the waxen bouquets, andthe horsehair chairs. The ancient tapestry besidethe carven balustrade of the staircase remained, butit had been cleaned, and even mended.

An oak dresser, black with age, and laden with blueand white china, lurked in a shadowy corner.Comfortable easy-chairs and odd, old-fashioned setteesfurnished the hall. In the oriel window stooda spinning-wheel and a grandfather’s chair.A great bowl of roses stood on the broad window-seat.There were roses, indeed, everywhere, and books onevery table. But the crowning grievance of allwas the cottage piano which John had sent to LadyMary. The case had been specially made of hand-carvenoak to match the room as nearly as might be.It was open, and beside it was a heap of music, andon it another bowl of roses.

“Ay, you may well look horrified,” saidMiss Crewys to the canon, whose admiration and delightwere very plainly depicted on his rubicund countenance.“Where are our cloaks and umbrellas? That’swhat I say to Isabella. Where are our goloshes?Where is anything, indeed, that one would expect tofind in a gentleman’s hall? Not so muchas a walking-stick. Everything to be kept inthe outer hall, where tramps could as easily stepin and help themselves; but our poor foolish Maryfancies that Peter will be delighted to find his oldhome turned upside down.”

“My belief is,” said Lady Belstone, “thatPeter will just insist on all this wooden rubbishtrotting back to the attics, where my dear granny,not being accustomed to wooden furniture, very properlyhid it away. If you will believe me, canon, thatdresser was brought up from the kitchen, andevery single pot and pan that decorates it used tobe kept in the housekeeper’s room. Thatlumbering old chest was in the harness-room.Pretty ornaments for a gentleman’s sitting-room!If Peter has grown up anything like my poor brother,he won’t put up with it at all.”

“I suppose, in one sense, it’s Peter’shouse, or will be very shortly?” said the canon.

“In every sense it’s Peter’shouse,” cried Lady Belstone; “and he comesof age, thank Heaven, in October.”

“I had hoped to hear he had sailed,” saidthe canon. “No news is good news, I hope.”

“The last telegram said his wound was doingwell, but did not give any date for his return.Young John says we may expect him any time. Ido not know what he knows about it more than any oneelse, however,” said Miss Crewys.

“His letters give no details about himself,”said Lady Belstone; “he makes no fuss abouthis wounded arm. He is a thorough Crewys, notgiven to making a to-do about trifles.”

“He could only write a few words with his lefthand,” said Miss Crewys; “more could nothave been expected of him. Yet poor Mary wasquite put out, as I plainly saw, though she said nothing,because the boy had not written at greater length.”

“I find they’ve made a good many preparationsfor his welcome down in the village,” said thecanon, “in case he should take us by surprise.So many of the officers have got passages at the lastmoment, unexpectedly. And we shall turn out toreceive him en masse. Mr. Crewys has givenus carte blanche for fireworks and flags; andthey are to have a fine bean-feast.”

“Our cousin John takes a great deal upon himself,and has made uncommonly free with Peter’s money,”said Lady Belstone, shaking her head. “Iwish he may not find himself pretty nigh ruined whenhe comes to look into his own affairs. In myopinion, Fred Crawley is little better than a fool.”

“He is most devoted to Peter’s interests,my dear lady,” said the canon, warmly, “andhe informed me that Mr. John Crewys had done wondersin the past two years.”

“He has turned the whole place topsy-turvy intwo years, in my opinion,” said Miss Crewys.“I don’t deny that he is a rising youngman, and that his manners are very taking. Butwhat can a co*ckney lawyer know, about timber, pray?”

“No man on earth, lawyer or no lawyer,”said Lady Belstone, emphatically, “will everconvince me that one can be better than well.”

“My sister alludes to the drains. It isa sore point, canon,” said Miss Crewys.“In my opinion, it is all this modern drainagethat sets up typhoid fever, and nothing else.”

“Bless me!” said the canon.

“Our poor Mary has grown so dependent on John,however, that she will hear nothing against him.One has to mind one’s p’s and q’s,”said Lady Belstone.

“He planned the alterations in this very hall,”said Miss Crewys, “and the only excuse he offered,so far as I could understand, was that it would amusepoor Mary to carry them out.”

“Does a widow wish to be amused?” saidLady Belstone, indignantly.

“And was she amused, dear lady?” askedthe canon, anxiously.

“When she saw our horror and dismay she smiled.”

“Did you call that a smile, Georgina? Icalled it a laugh. It takes almost nothing tomake her laugh nowadays.”

“You would not wish her to be too melancholy,”said the canon, almost pleadingly; “one so—­socharming, so—­”

“Canon Birch,” said Lady Belstone, inawful tones, “she is a widow.”

The canon was silent, displaying an embarrassmentwhich did not escape the vigilant observation of thesisters, who exchanged a meaning glance.

“Well may you remind us of the fact, Isabella,”said Miss Crewys, “for she has discarded thelast semblance of mourning.”

“Time flies so fast,” said the canon,as though impelled to defend the absent. “Itis—­getting on for three years since poorSir Timothy died.”

“It is but two years and four months,”said Miss Crewys.

“It is thirty-three years since the admiralwent aloft,” said Lady Belstone, who often becameslightly nautical in phrase when alluding to her departedhusband; “and look at me.”

The pocket-handkerchief she held up was deeply borderedwith ink. Orthodox streamers floated on eitherside her severe countenance.

The canon looked and shook his head. He feltthat the mysteries of a widow’s garments hadbest not be discussed by one who dwelt, so to speak,outside them.

“Poor Mary can do nothing gradually,”said Miss Crewys. “She leapt in a singlehour out of a black dress into a white one.”

“Her anguish when our poor Timothy succumbedto that fatal operation surpassed even the boundsof decorum,” said Lady Belstone, “andyet—­she would not wear a cap!”

She appealed to the canon with such a pathetic expressionin her small, red-rimmed, grey eyes that he couldnot answer lightly.

They faced him with anxious looks and drooping, tremulousmouths. They had grown curiously alike duringthe close association of nearly eighty years, thoughin their far-off days of girlhood no one had thoughtthem to resemble each other.

Miss Crewys crocheted a shawl with hands so delicatelycared for and preserved, that they scarce showed anysign of her great age; her sister wore gloves, aswas the habit of both when unoccupied, and she graspedher handkerchief in black kid fingers that trembledslightly with emotion.

The canon realized that the old ladies were seriouslytroubled concerning their sister-in-law’s delinquencies.

“We speak to you, of course, as our clergyman,”said Miss Crewys; and the poor gentleman could onlybow sympathetically.

“I am an old friend,” he said feelingly,“and your confidences are sacred. But Ithink in your very natural—­er—­affectionfor Lady Mary”—­the word stuck inhis throat—­“you are, perhaps, over-anxious.In judging those younger than ourselves,” saidthe canon, gallantly coupling himself with his auditors,’though acutely conscious that he was some twenty yearsthe junior of both, “we must not forget thatthey recover their spirits, by a merciful dispensationof Providence, more quickly than we should ourselvesin the like circ*mstances,” said the canon,who was as light-hearted a cleric as any in England.

“They do, indeed,” said Lady Belstone,emphatically; “when they can sing and play allthe day and half the night, like our dear Mary andyoung John.”

“You see the piano blocking up the hall, thoughSir Timothy hated music?” said Miss Crewys.

Her own mourning was thoughtfully graduated to indicatethe time which had elapsed since Sir Timothy’sdecease. She wore a violet silk of sombre hue,ornamented by a black silk apron and a black lace scarf.The velvet bow which served so very imperfectly asa skull-cap was also violet, intimating a semi-assuaged,but respectfully lengthened, grief for the departed.

“And now this maddest scheme of all,”said Miss Crewys.

“Bless me! What mad scheme?”

“A house in London is to be hired as soon asPeter comes home.”

“Is that all? But surely that is very natural.For my part, I have often wondered why none of youever cared to go to London, if only for your shopping.I am very fond of a trip to town myself, now and then,for a few days.”

“A few days, it seems, would not suffice ourcousin John’s notions. He is pleased tothink Peter may require skilled medical attendance;and, since he wrote he was in rags, a new outfit.These, it seems, can only be obtained in the Metropolisnowadays. My brother’s tailor still livesin Exeter; and with all his faults—­and nobodycan dislike him more than I do—­I have neverheard it denied that Dr. Blundell is a skilful apothecary.”

“Very skilful,” added Miss Crewys.“You remember, Isabella, how quickly he putyour poor little Fido out of his agony.”

“That is nothing; all doctors understand animals’illnesses. They kill numbers of guinea-pigs beforethey are allowed to try their hands on human beings,”said Lady Belstone. “The point is, thatif my poor brother Timothy had not been mad enoughto go to London, he would have been alive at thismoment. I have never heard of Dr. Blundell findingit necessary—­much as I detest the man—­toperform an operation on anybody.”

“Apart from this painful subject, my dear lady,”murmured the canon, “I presume it is only afurnished house that Lady Mary contemplates?”

“During all the years of his married life SirTimothy never hired a furnished house,” saidMiss Crewys. “The home of his fathers sufficedhim.”

“She may want a change?” suggested thecanon.

Miss Crewys interpreted him literally. “No;she is in the best of health.”

“Better than I have ever seen her, and—­andgayer” said Lady Belstone, with emphasis.

“People who are gay and bright in dispositionare the very ones who—­who pine for a littleexcitement at times,” said the courageous canon.“There is so much to be seen and done and heardin London. For instance, as you say—­sheis passionately fond of music.”

“She gets plenty. We get more than enough,”said Miss Crewys, grimly.

“I mean good music;” then he recollectedhimself in alarm. “No, no; I don’tmean hers is not charming, and Mr. John’s playingis delightful, but—­”

“There is an organ in the parish church,”said Miss Crewys, crocheting more busily than ever.“I have heard no complaints of the choir.Have you?”

“No, no; but—­besides music, thereare so many other things,” he said dismally.“She likes pictures, too.”

“It does not look like it, canon,” saidLady Belstone, sorrowfully. She waved her handkerchieftowards the panelled walls. “She has removedthe family portraits to the lumber-room.”

“At least the Vandyck has never been seen togreater advantage,” said the canon, hopefully;“and I hear the gallery upstairs has been restoredand supported, to render it safe to walk upon, whichwill enable you to take pleasure in the fine picturesthere.”

“I am sadly afraid that it is not pictures thatpoor Mary hankers after, but theatres,”said Miss Crewys. “John has persuaded her,if persuasion was needed, which I take leave to doubt,that there is nothing improper in visiting such places.My dear brother thought otherwise.”

“You know I do not share your opinions on thatpoint,” said the canon. “Though notmuch of a theatre-goer myself, still—­”

“A widow at the theatre!” said Lady Belstone.“Even in the admiral’s lifetime I didnot go. Being a sailor, and not a clergyman,”she added sternly, “he frequented such placesof amusem*nt. But he said he could not have enjoyeda ballet properly with me looking on. His feelingswere singularly delicate.” “I am afraidpeople must be talking about dear Mary a good deal,canon,” said Miss Crewys, whisking a ball ofwool from the floor to her knee with much dexterity.

Her keen eyes gleamed at her visitor through her spectacles,though her fingers never stopped for a moment.

“I hope not. I’ve heard nothing.”

“My experience of men,” said Lady Belstone,“is that they never do hear anything.But a widow cannot be too cautious in her behaviour.All eyes are fixed, I know not why, upon a widow,”she added modestly.

“We do our best to guard dear Mary’s reputation,”said Miss Crewys.

The impetuous canon sprang to his feet with a half-utteredexclamation; then recollecting the age and temperamentof the speaker, he checked himself and tried to laugh.

“I do not know,” he said, “who hassaid, or ever could say, one single word against that—­againstour dear and sweet Lady Mary. But if there isany one, I can only say that such word had better notbe uttered in my presence, that’s all.”

“Dear me, Canon Birch, you excite yourself veryunnecessarily,” said Lady Belstone, with assumedsurprise. “You are just confirming oursuspicions.”

“What suspicions?” almost shouted thecanon,

“That our dear Lady Mary’s extraordinarypartiality for our cousin John has not escapedthe observation of a censorious world.”

“Though we have done our best never to leavehim alone with her for a single moment,” interpolatedMiss Crewys.

The canon turned rather pale. “There canbe no question of censure,” he said. “LadyMary is a very charming and beautiful woman. Whocould dare to blame her if she contemplated such astep as—­as a second marriage?”

“A second marriage! We said nothing ofa second marriage,” said Lady Belstone, sharply.“You go a great deal too fast, canon. Luckily,our poor Mary is debarred from any such act of folly.I have no patience with widows who re-marry.”

“Debarred from a second marriage!”

“Is it possible you don’t know?”

The sisters exchanged meaning glances.

He looked from one to the other in bewilderment.

“If our sister-in-law remarries,” saidMiss Crewys, “she forfeits the whole of herjointure.”

“Is that all?” he cried.

“Is that all!” echoed Miss Crewys, muchoffended. “It is no less than two thousanda year. In my opinion, far too heavy a chargeon poor Peter’s estate.”

“No man with any self-respect,” said LadyBelstone, “would desire to marry a widow withouta jointure. I should have formed a low opinion,indeed, of any gentleman who asked me to marryhim without first making sure that the admiral hadprovided for me as he ought, and as he has.”

The canon, though mentally echoing the sentiment withmuch warmth, thought it wiser to change the topicof conversation. Experience had taught him todiscredit most of the assumptions of Lady Mary’ssisters-in-law, where she was concerned, and he rosein hope of effecting his escape without further ado.

“I believe I am to meet Mr. Crewys at luncheon,”he said, “and with your permission I will strollout into the grounds, and look him up. He toldme where he was to be found.”

“He is to be found all over the place.He seizes every opportunity of coming down here.I cannot believe in his making so much money in London,when he manages to get away so often. As for Mary,you know her way of inviting people to lunch, andthen going out for a walk, or up to her room, as likelyas not. But I suppose she will be down directly,if you like to wait here,” said Lady Belstone,who had plenty more to say.

“I should be glad of a turn before luncheon,”said the canon, who had no mind to hear it. “Andthere is an hour and a half yet. You lunch attwo? I came straight from the school-house, asLady Mary suggested. I wanted to have a lookat the improvements.”

“Sarah Hewel is coming to lunch,” saidMiss Crewys. “I cannot say we approve ofher, since she has been out so much in London, andbecome such a notorious young person.”

“It’s very odd to me,” said thecanon, benevolently, “little Sarah growing upinto a fashionable beauty. I often see her namein the papers.”

“She is exactly the kind of person to attractour cousin John, who is quite foolish about her redhair. In my young days, red hair was just a misfortunelike any other,” said Miss Crewys. “Dr.Blundell is lunching here also, I need hardly say.Since my dear brother’s death we keep open house.”

“It used not to be the fashion to encouragecountry doctors to be tame cats,” said LadyBelstone, viciously; “but he pretends to likethe innovations, and gets round young John; and inquiresafter Peter, and pleases Mary.”

“Ay, ay; it will be a great moment for her whenthe boy comes back. A great moment for you all,”said the canon, absently.

He stood with his back to the tall leather screenwhich guarded the entrance to the hall, and did nothear the gentle opening of the great door.

“I trust,” said Miss Crewys, “thatwe are not a family prone to display weak emotioneven on the most trying occasions.”

“To be sure not,” said the canon, disconcerted;“still, I cannot think of it myself withouta little—­a great deal—­of thankfulnessfor his preservation through this terrible war, nowso happily ended. And to think the boy shouldhave earned so much distinction for himself, and behavedso gallantly. God bless the lad! You arewell aware,” said the canon, blowing his nose,“that I have always been fond of Peter.”

“Thank you, canon,” said Peter.

For a moment no one was sure that it was Peter, whohad come so quietly round the great screen and intothe hall, though he stood somewhat in the shadow still.

A young man, looking older than his age, and severalinches taller than Peter had been when he went away;a young man deeply tanned, and very wiry and thinin figure; with a brown, narrow face, a dark streakof moustache, a long nose, and a pair of grey eyesrendered unfamiliar by an eyeglass, which was an ornamentPeter had not worn before his departure.

The old ladies sat motionless, trembling with theshock; but the canon seized the hand which Peter heldout, and, scarcely noticing that it was his left hand,shook it almost madly in both his own.

“Peter! good heavens, Peter!” he cried,and the tears ran unheeded down his plump, rosy cheeks.“Peter, my boy, God bless you! Welcomehome a thousand thousand times!”

“Peter!” gasped Lady Belstone. “Isit possible?”

“Why, he’s grown into a man,” saidMiss Crewys, showing symptoms of an inclination tobecome hysterical.

Peter was aghast at the commotion, and came hurriedlyforward to soothe his agitated relatives.

“Is this your boasted self-command, Georgina?”said Lady Belstone, weeping.

“We cannot always be consistent, Isabella.It was the unexpected joy,” sobbed Miss Crewys.

“Peter! your arm!” screamed LadyBelstone and she fell back almost fainting upon thesofa.

Peter stood full in the light now, and they saw thathe had lost his right arm. The empty sleeve waspinned to his breast.

His aunt tottered towards him. “My poorboy!” she sobbed.

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Peter,in rather annoyed tones. “I can use myleft hand perfectly well. I hardly notice it now.”

Something in the tone of this speech caused his auntsto exclaim simultaneously—­

“Dear boy, he has not changed one bit!”

“You never told us, Peter,” said the canon,huskily.

“I didn’t want a fuss,” Peter said,very simply, “so I just got the newspaper chapto cork it down about my being shot in the arm, withoutany details. It had to be amputated first thing,as a matter of fact.”

“It has given your aunt Georgina and me a terribleshock,” said Lady Belstone, faintly.

“You can’t expect a fellow who has beeninvalided home to turn up without a single scratch,”said Peter, in rather surly tones.

“How like his father!” said Miss Crewys.

“Besides, you know very well my mother wouldhave tormented herself to death if I had told her,”said Peter. “I want her to see with herown eyes how perfectly all right I am before she knowsanything about it.”

“It was a noble thought,” said the canon.

“Where is she?” demanded Peter.

He seemed about to cross the hall to the staircasebut the canon detained him.

“Oughtn’t some one to prepare her?”

“Oh, joy never kills,” said Peter.“She’s quite well, isn’t she?”

“Quite well.”

“Very well indeed” said Miss Crewys,with emphasis that seemed to imply Lady Mary was betterthan she had any need to be.

“I have never,” said the canon, with anervous side-glance at Peter, “seen her lookso well, nor so—­so lovely, nor so—­sobrilliant. Only your return was needed to complete—­herhappiness.”

Peter looked at the canon through his newly acquiredeyeglass with some slight surprise.

“Well,” he said, “I wouldn’ttelegraph. I wanted to slip home quietly, that’sthe fact; or I knew the place would be turned upsidedown to receive me.”

“The people are preparing a royal welcome foryou,” said the canon, warmly. “Banners,music, processions, addresses, and I don’t knowwhat.”

“That’s awful rot!” said Peter.“Tell them I hate banners and music and addresses,and everything of the kind.”

“No, no, my dear boy,” said the canon,in rather distressed tones. “Don’tsay that, Peter, pray. You must think of theirfeelings, you know. There’s hardly oneof them who hasn’t sent somebody to the war;son or brother or sweetheart. And all that’sleft for—­for those who stay behind—­notalways the least hard thing to do for a patriot, Peter—­isto honour, as far as they can, each one who returns.They work off some of their accumulated feelings thatway, you know; and in their rejoicings they do notforget those who, alas! will never return any more.”

There was a pause; and Peter remained silent, embarrassedby the canon’s emotion, and not knowing verywell how to reply.

“There, there,” said the canon, savinghim the trouble; “we can discuss it later.You are thinking of your mother now.”

As he spoke, they all heard Lady Mary’s voicein the corridor above. She was humming a song,and as she neared the open staircase the words ofher song came very distinctly to their ears—­

Entends tu ma pensee qui le respondtout bas?
Ton doux chant me rappelle les plusbeaux de mes jours.

“My mother’s voice,” said Peter,in bewildered accents; and he dropped his eyeglass.

The canon showed a presence of mind that seldom distinguishedhim.

He hurried away the old ladies, protesting, into thedrawing-room, and closed the door behind him.

Peter scarcely noticed their absence.

Ah! le rire fidele prouveun coeur sans detours,
Ah! riez, riez—­mabelle—­riez, riez toujours,

sang Lady Mary.

“I never heard my mother sing before,”said Peter.

CHAPTER XI

Lady Mary came down the oak staircase singing.The white draperies of her summer gown trailed softlyon the wide steps, and in her hands she carried aquantity of roses. A black ribbon was bound abouther waist, and seemed only to emphasize the slendernessof her form. Her brown hair was waved looselyabove her brow; it was not much less abundant, thoughmuch less bright, than in her girlhood. The freshnessof youth had gone for ever; but her loveliness haddepended less upon that radiant colouring which hadonce been hers than upon her clear-cut features, andexquisitely shaped head and throat. Her blue eyeslooked forth from a face white and delicate as a shellcameo, beneath finely pencilled brows; but they shonenow with a new hopefulness—­a timid expectancyof happiness; they were no longer pensive and downcastas Peter had known them best.

The future had been shrouded by a heavy mist of hopelessnessalways—­for Lady Mary. But the fog hadlifted, and a fair landscape lay before her.Not bright, alas! with the brightness and the promiseof the morning-time; but yet—­there are sunnyafternoons; and the landscape was bright still, thoughlong shadows from the past fell across it.

Peter saw only that his mother, for some extraordinaryreason, looked many years younger than when he hadleft her, and that she had exchanged her customarydull, old-fashioned garb for a beautiful and becomingdress. He gave an involuntary start, and immediatelyshe perceived him.

She stretched out her arms to him with a cry thatrang through the rafters of the hall. The roseswere scattered.

“My boy! O God, my darling boy!”

In the space of a flash—­a second—­LadyMary had seen and understood. Her arms were roundhim, and her face hidden upon his empty sleeve.She was as still as death. Peter stooped his headand laid his cheek against her hair; he felt for onefleeting moment that he had never known before howmuch he loved his mother.

“Forgive me for keeping it dark, mother,”he whispered presently; “but I knew you’dthink I was dying, or something, if I told you.It had to be done, and I don’t care—­much—­now;one gets used to anything. My aunts nearly hada fit when I came in; but I knew you’dbe too thankful to get me home safe and sound, tomake a fuss over what can’t be helped.It’s—­it’s just the fortune ofwar.”

“Oh, if I could meet the man who did it!”she cried, with fire in her blue eyes.

“It wasn’t a man; it was a gun,”said Peter. “Let’s forget it.I say—­doesn’t it feel rummy to beat home again?”

“But you have come back a man, Peter. Nota boy at all,” said Lady Mary, laughing throughher tears. “Do let me look at you.You must be six feet three, surely.”

“Barely six feet one in my boots,” saidPeter, reprovingly.

“And you have a moustache—­more orless.”

“Of course I have a moustache,” said Peter,gravely stroking it. He mechanically replacedhis eyeglass.

Lady Mary laughed till she cried.

“Do forgive me, darling. But oh, Peter,it seems so strange. My boy grown into a tallgentleman with an eyeglass. Nothing has happenedto your eye?” she cried, in sudden anxiety.

“No, no; I am just a little short-sighted, thatis all,” he mumbled, rather awkwardly.

He found it difficult to explain that he had travelledhome with a distinguished man who had captivated hisyouthful fancy, and caused him to fall into a fitof hero-worship, and to imitate his idol as closelyas possible. Hence the eyeglass, and a few harmlessmannerisms which temporarily distinguished Peter,and astonished his previous acquaintance.

But there was something else in Peter’s manner,too, for the moment. A new tenderness, whichpeeped through his old armour of sulky indifference;the chill armour of his boyhood, which had grown somethingtoo strait and narrow for him even now, and from whichhe would doubtless presently emerge altogether—­butnot yet.

Though Lady Mary laughed, she was trembling and shakenwith emotion. Peter came to the sofa and kneltbeside her there, and she took his hand in both hers,and laid her face upon it, and they were very stillfor a few moments.

“Mother dear,” said Peter presently, withoutlooking at her, “coming home like this, andnot finding my father here, makes me realizefor the first time—­though it’s allso long ago—­what’s happened.”

“My poor boy!”

“Poor mother! You must have been terriblylonely all this time I’ve been away.”

“I’ve longed for your return, my darling,”said Lady Mary.

Her tone was embarrassed, but Peter did not noticethat.

“You see—­I went away a boy, but I’vecome back a man, as you said just now,” saidPeter.

“You’re still very young, my darling—­notone-and-twenty,” she said fondly.

“I’m older than my age; and I’vebeen through a lot; more than you’d think, allthis time I’ve been away. I dare say ithasn’t seemed so long to you, who’ve hadno experiences to go through,” he said simply.

She kissed him silently.

“Now just listen, mother dear,” said Peter,firmly. “I made up my mind to say somethingto you the very first minute I saw you, and it’sgot to be said. I’m sorry I used to besuch a beast to you—­there.”

“Oh, Peter!”

“I dare say,” said Peter, “thatit’s all this rough time in South Africa that’smade me feel what a fool I used to make of myself,when I was a discontented ass of a boy; that, or beingill, or something, used to—­make one thinka bit. And that’s why I made up my mindto tell you. I know I used to disappoint youhorribly, and be bored by your devotion, and all that.But you’ll see,” said Peter, decidedly,“that I mean to be different now; and you’llforgive me, won’t you?”

“My darling, I forgave you long ago—­ifthere was anything to forgive,” she cried,

“You know there was,” said Peter; andhe sounded like the boy Peter again, now that shecould not see his face. “Well, my soldiering’sdone for.” A faint note of regret soundedin his voice. “I had a good bout, so Isuppose I oughtn’t to complain; but I had hoped—­however,it’s all for the best. And there’sno doubt,” said Peter, “that my duty lieshere now. In a very few months I shall be my ownmaster, and I mean to keep everything going here exactlyas it was in my father’s time. You shalldevote yourself to me, and I’ll devote myselfto Barracombe; and we’ll just settle down intoall the old ways. Only it will be me insteadof my father—­that’s all.”

“You instead of your father—­that’sall,” echoed Lady Mary. She felt as thoughher mind had suddenly become a blank.

“I used to rebel against poor papa,” saidPeter, remorsefully. “But now I look back,I know he was just the kind of man I should like tobe.”

She kissed his hand in silence. Her face washidden.

“I want you—­and my aunts, to feelthat, though I am young and inexperienced, and allthat,” said Peter, tenderly, “there areto be no changes.”

“But, Peter,” said his mother, rathertremulously, “there are—­sure to be—­changes.You will want to marry, sooner or later. In yourposition, you are almost bound to marry.”

“Oh, of course,” said Peter. He releasedhis hand gently, in order to stroke the cherishedmoustache. “But I shall put off the evilday as long as possible, like my father did.”

“I see,” said Lady Mary. She smiledfaintly.

“And when it does arrive,” saidPeter, “my wife will just have to understandthat she comes second. I’ve no notion ofbeing led by the nose by any woman, particularly ayoung woman. I’m sure my father never dreamtof putting his sisters on one side, or turning themout of their place, when he married you, didhe?”

“Never,” said Lady Mary.

“Of course they were snappish at times.I suppose all old people get like that. But,on the whole, you managed to jog along pretty comfortably,didn’t you?”

“Oh yes,” said Lady Mary. “Wejogged along pretty comfortably.”

“Then don’t you see how snug we shallbe?” said Peter, triumphantly. “Ican tell you a fellow learns to appreciate home whenhe has been without one, so to speak, for over twoyears. And home wouldn’t be home withoutyou, mother dear.”

Lady Mary sank suddenly back among the cushions.Her feelings were divided between dismay and self-reproach.Yet she was faintly amused too—­amused atPeter and herself. Her boy had returned to herwith sentiments that were surely all that a mothercould desire; and yet—­yet she felt instinctivelythat Peter was Peter still; that his thoughts werenot her thoughts, nor his ways her ways. Thenthe self-reproach began to predominate in Lady Mary’smind. How could she criticize her boy, her darling,who had proved himself a son to be proud of, and whohad come back to her with a heart so full of loveand loyalty?

“And you couldn’t live withoutme, could you?” said Peter, affectionately;and he laughed. “I suppose you meant togo into that little, damp, tumble-down Dower House,and watch over me from there; now didn’t you,mummy?”

“I—­I thought, when you came of age,”faltered Lady Mary, “that I should give up BarracombeHouse to you, naturally. I could come and staywith you sometimes—­whether you were marriedor not, you know. And—­and, of course,the Dower House does belong to me.”

“I won’t hear of your going there,”said Peter, stoutly, “whether I’m marriedor not. It’s a beastly place.”

“It’s very picturesque,” said LadyMary, guiltily; “and I—­I wasn’tthinking of living there all the year round.”

“Why, where on earth else could you have gone?”he demanded, regarding her with astonishment throughthe eyeglass.

“There are several places—­London,”she faltered.

“London!” said Peter; “but my fatherhad a perfect horror of London. He wouldn’thave liked it at all.”

“He belonged—­to the old school,”said Lady Mary, meekly; “to younger people,perhaps—­an occasional change might be pleasantand profitable.”

“Oh! to younger people,” said Peter,in mollified tones. “I don’t sayI shall never run up to London. I daresay I shall be obliged, now and then, on business.Not often though. I hate absentee landlords,as my father did.”

“Travelling is said to open the mind,”murmured Lady Mary, weakly pursuing her argument,as she supposed it to be.

“I’ve seen enough of the world now tolast me a lifetime,” said Peter, in sublimeunconsciousness that any fate but his own could bein question.

“I didn’t think you would have changedso much as this, Peter,” she said, rather dismally.“You used to find this place so dull.”

“I know I used,” Peter agreed; “butoh, mother, if you knew how sick I’ve been nowand then with longing to get back to it! I madeup my mind a thousand times how it should all be whenI came home again; and that you and me would be everythingin the world to each other, as you used to wish whenI was a selfish boy, thinking only of getting awayand being independent. I’m afraid I usedto be rather selfish, mother?”

“Perhaps you were—­a little,”said Lady Mary.

“You will never have to complain of thatagain,” said Peter.

She looked at him with a faint, pathetic smile.

“I shall take care of you, and look after you,just as my father used to do,” said Peter.“Now you rest quietly here”—­andhe gently laid her down among the cushions on thesofa—­“whilst I take a look roundthe old place.”

“Let me come with you, darling.”

“Good heavens, no! I should tire you todeath. My father never liked you to go climbingabout.”

“I am much more active than I used to be,”said Lady Mary.

“No, no; you must lie down, you look quite pale.”Peter’s voice took an authoritative note, whichcame very naturally to him. “The suddenjoy of my return has been too much for you, poor oldmum.”

He leant over her fondly, and kissed the sweet, paleface, and then regarded her in a curious, doubtfulmanner.

“You’re changed, mother. I can’tthink what it is. Isn’t your hair donedifferently—­or something?”

Poor Lady Mary lifted both hands to her head, andlooked at him with something like alarm in her blueeyes.

“Is it? Perhaps it is,” she faltered.“Don’t you like it, Peter?”

“I like the old way best,” said Peter.

“But this is so much more becoming, Peter.”

“A fellow doesn’t care,” said Peter,loftily, “whether his mother’s hair isbecoming or not. He likes to see her always thesame as when he was a little chap.”

“It is—­sweet of you, to have sucha thought,” murmured Lady Mary. She tookher courage in both hands. “But the otherway is out of fashion, Peter.”

“Why, mother, you never used to follow the fashionsbefore I went away; you won’t begin now, atyour age, will you?”

“At my age” repeated Lady Mary,blankly. Then she looked at him with that wondering,pathetic smile, which seemed to have replaced already,since Peter came home, the joyousness which had timidlystolen back from her vanished youth. “Atmy age!” said Lady Mary; “you are notvery complimentary, Peter.”

“You don’t expect a fellow to pay complimentsto his mother,” said Peter, staring at her.“Why, mother, what has come to you? Andbesides—­”

“Besides?”

“I’m sure papa hated compliments, andall that sort of rot,” Peter blurted out, inboyish fashion. “Don’t you rememberhow fond he was of quoting, ’Praise to the faceis open disgrace’?”

The late Sir Timothy, like many middle-class people,had taken a compliment almost as a personal offence;and regarded the utterer, however gracious or sincere,with suspicion. Neither had the squire himselferred on the side of flattering his fellow-creatures.

“Oh yes, I remember,” said Lady Mary;and she rose from the sofa.

“Why, what’s the matter?” askedPeter. “I haven’t vexed you, haveI?”

She turned impetuously and threw her arms round himas he stood by the hearth, gazing down upon her inbewilderment.

“Vexed with my boy, my darling, my only son,on the very day when God has given him back to me?”she cried passionately. “My poor woundedboy, my hero! Oh no, no! But I want onlylove from you to-day, and no reproaches, Peter.”

“Why, I wasn’t dreaming of reproachingyou, mother.” He hesitated. “Onlyyou’re a bit different from what I expected—­that’sall.”

“Have I disappointed you?”

“No, no! Only I—­well, I thoughtI might find you changed, but in a different way,”he said, half apologetically. “Perhaps older,you know, or—­or sadder.”

Lady Mary’s white face flushed scarlet frombrow to chin; but Peter, occupied with his monocle,observed nothing.

“I’d prepared myself for that,”he said, “and to find you all in black.And—­”

“I threw off my mourning,” she murmured,“the very day I heard you were coming home.”She paused, and added hurriedly, “It was verythoughtless. I’m sorry; I ought to havethought of your feelings, my darling.”

“Aunt Isabella has never changed hers, has she?”said Peter.

“Aunt Isabella is a good deal more conventionalthan I am; and a great many years older,” saidLady Mary, tremulously.

“I don’t see what that has to do withit,” said Peter.

She turned away, and began to gather up her scatteredroses. A few moments since the roses had beenless than nothing to her. What were roses, whatwas anything, compared to Peter? Now they creptback into their own little place in creation; theirbeauty and fragrance dumbly conveyed a subtle comfortto her soul, as she lovingly laid one against another,until a glowing bouquet of coppery golden hue wasformed. She lifted an ewer from the old dresser,and poured water into a great silver goblet, whereinshe plunged the stalks of her roses. Why shouldthey be left to fade because Peter had come home?

“You remember these?” she said, “fromthe great climber round my bedroom window? Ileant out and cut them—­little thinking—­”

Peter signified a gloomy assent. He stood beforethe chimneypiece watching his mother, but not offeringto help her; rather as though undecided as to whathis next words ought to be.

“Peter, darling, it’s so funny to seeyou standing there, so tall, and so changed—­”But though it was so funny the tears were droppingfrom her blue eyes, which filled and overflowed likea child’s, without painful effort or grimaces.“You—­you remind me so of your father,”she said, almost involuntarily.

“I’m glad I’m like him,” saidPeter.

She sighed. “How I used to wish you werea little tiny bit like me too!”

“But I’m not, am I?”

“No, you’re not. Not one tiny bit,”she answered wistfully. “But you do loveme, Peter?”

“Haven’t I proved I love you?” saidPeter; and she perceived that his feelings were hurt.“Coming back, and—­and thinking onlyof you, and—­and of never leaving you anymore. Why, mother”—­for in anagony of love and remorse she was clinging to himand sobbing, with her face pressed against his emptysleeve—­“why, mother,” Peterrepeated, in softened tones, “of course I loveyou.”

The drawing-room door was cautiously opened, and Peter’saunts came into the hall on tiptoe, followed by thecanon.

“Ah, I thought so,” said Lady Belstone,in the self-congratulatory tones of the successfulprophet, “it has been too much for poor Mary.She has been overcome by the joy of dear Peter’sreturn.”

CHAPTER XII

“Try my salts, dear Mary,” said Miss Crewys,hastening to apply the remedies which were alwaysto be found in her black velvet reticule.

“I blame myself,” said the canon, distressfully—­“Iblame myself. I should have insisted on breakingthe news to her gently.”

Lady Mary smiled upon them all. “On thecontrary,” she said, “I was offering,not a moment ago, to take Peter round and show himthe improvements. We have been so much occupiedwith each other that he has not had time to look roundhim.”

“I wish he may think them improvements, my love,”said Lady Belstone.

Miss Crewys, joyously scenting battle, hastened tojoin forces with her sister.

“We are far from criticizing any changes yourdear mother may have been induced to make,”she said; “but as your Aunt Isabella has frequentlyobserved to me, what can a Londoner know oflandscape gardening?”

“A Londoner?” said Peter.

“Your guardian, my boy,” said the canon,nervously. “He has slightly opened outthe views; that is all your good aunt is intendingto say.”

Peter’s good aunt opened her mouth to contradictthis assertion indignantly, but Lady Mary broke inwith some impatience.

“I do not mean the trees. Of course thehouse was shut in far too closely by the trees atthe back and sides. We wanted more air, morelight, more freedom.” She drew a long breathand flung out her hands in unconscious illustration.“But there are many very necessary changes that—­thatPeter will like to see,” said Lady Mary, glancingalmost defiantly at the pursed-up mouths and loweredeyelids of the sisters.

Peter walked suddenly into the middle of the banqueting-halland looked round him.

“Why, what’s come to the old place?It’s—­it’s changed somehow.What have you been doing to it?” he demanded.

“Don’t you—­don’t youlike it, Peter?” faltered Lady Mary. “Theroof was not safe, you know, and had to be mended,and—­and when it was all done up, the furnitureand curtains looked so dirty and ugly and inappropriate.I sent them away and brought down some of the beautifulold things that belonged to your great-grandmother,and made the hall brighter and more livable.”

Peter examined the new aspect of his domain with loweringbrow.

“I don’t like it at all,” he announced,finally. “I hate changes.”

The sisters breathed again. “So like hisfather!”

Their allegiance to Sir Timothy had been transferredto his heir.

“Your guardian approved,” said Lady Mary.

She turned proudly away, but she could not keep thepain altogether out of her voice. Neither wouldshe stoop to solicit Peter’s approval beforeher rejoicing opponents.

“Mr. John Crewys is a very great connoisseur,”said the canon. He taxed his memory for corroborativeevidence, and brought out the result with honest pride.“I believe, curiously enough, that he spendsmost of his spare time at the British Museum.”

Lady Mary’s lip quivered with laughter in themidst of her very real distress and mortification.

But the argument appeared to the canon a most suitableone, and he was further encouraged by Peter’sreception of it.

“If my guardian approves, I suppose it’sall right,” said the young man, with an effort.“My father left all that sort of thing in hishands, I understand, and he knew what he was doing.I say, where’s that great vase of wax flowersthat used to stand on the centre table under a glassshade?”

“Darling,” said Lady Mary, “it jarredso with the whole scheme of decoration.”

“I am taking care of that in my room, Peter,”said Miss Crewys.

“And the stuffed birds, and the weasels, andthe ferrets that I was so fond of when I was a littlechap. You don’t mean to say you’vedone away with those too?” cried Peter, wrathfully.

“They—­they are in the gun-room,”said Lady Mary. “It seemed such a—­such—­anappropriate place for them.”

“I believe,” said the canon, nervously,“that stuffing is no longer considered decorative.After all, why should we place dead animalsin our sitting-rooms?”

He looked round with the anxious smile of the would-bepeacemaker.

“They were very much worm-eaten, Peter,”said Lady Mary. “But if you would likethem brought back—­”

Perhaps the pain in her voice penetrated even Peter’sperception, for he glanced hastily towards her.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said magnanimously.“If you and my guardian decided they were rotten,there’s an end of it. Of course I’drather have things as they used to be; but after allthis time, I expect there’s bound to be a fewchanges.” He turned from the contemplationof the hall to face his relatives squarely, with theair of an autocrat who had decreed that the subjectwas at an end.

“By-the-by,” said Peter, “whereis John Crewys? They told me he was stoppinghere.”

“He will be in directly,” said Lady Mary,“and Sarah Hewel ought to be here presentlytoo. She is coming to luncheon.”

“Sarah!” said Peter. “I shouldlike to see her again. Is she still such a rumlittle toad? Always getting into scrapes, andcoming to you for comfort?”

“I think,” said Lady Mary, and her blueeyes twinkled—­“I think you may besurprised to see little Sarah. She is grown upnow.”

“Of course,” said Peter. “She’sonly a year younger than I am.”

Lady Mary wondered why Peter’s way of sayingof course jarred upon her so much. Hehad always been brusque and abrupt; it was the familyfashion. Was it because she had grown accustomedto the tactful and gentle methods of John Crewys thatit seemed to have become suddenly such an intolerablefashion? Sir Timothy had quite honestly believedtactfulness to be a form of insincerity. He didnot recognize it as the highest outward expressionof self-control. But Lady Mary, since she hadknown John Crewys, knew also that it is considerationfor the feelings of others which causes the wise manto order his speech carefully.

The canon shook his head when Peter stated that MissHewel was his junior by a twelvemonth.

“She might be ten years older,” he said,in awe-struck tones. “I have always heardthat women were extraordinarily adaptable, but I neverrealized it before. However, to be sure, she hasseen a good deal more of the world than you have.More than most of us, though in such a comparativelyshort space of time. But she is one in a thousandfor quickness.”

“Seen more of the world than I have?”said Peter, astonished. “Why, I’vebeen soldiering in South Africa for over two years.”

“I don’t think soldiering brings muchworldly wisdom in its train. I should be rathersorry to think it did,” said Lady Mary, gently.“But Sarah has been with Lady Tintern all thiswhile.”

“A very worldly woman, indeed, from all I haveheard,” said Miss Crewys, severely.

“But a very great lady,” said Lady Mary,“who knows all the famous people, not only inEngland, but in Europe. The daughter of a viceroy,and the wife of a man who was not only a peer, anda great landowner, but also a distinguished ambassador.And she has taken Sarah everywhere, and the childis an acknowledged beauty in London and Paris.Lady Tintern is delighted with her, and declares shehas taken the world by storm.”

“We never thought her a beauty down here,”said Peter, rather contemptuously.

“Perhaps we did not appreciate her sufficientlydown here,” said Lady Mary, smiling.

“Why, who is she, after all?” cried Peter.

“A very beautiful and self-possessed young woman,and Lady Tintern’s niece, ‘whom not toknow argues yourself unknown,’” said LadyMary, laughing outright. “John says peoplewere actually mobbing her picture in the Academy;he could not get near it.”

“I mean,” said Peter, almost sulkily,“that she’s only old Colonel Hewel’sdaughter, whom we’ve known all our lives.”

“Perhaps one is in danger of undervaluing peopleone has known all one’s life,” said LadyMary, lightly.

Peter muttered something to the effect that he wassorry to hear Sarah had grown up like that; but hiswords were lost in the tumultuous entry of Dr. Blundell,who pealed the front door bell, and rushed into thehall, almost simultaneously.

His dark face was flushed and enthusiastic. Hecame straight to Peter, and held out his hand.

“A thousand welcomes, Sir Peter. Lady Mary,I congratulate you. I came up in my dog-cartas fast as possible, to let you know the people areturning out en masse to welcome you. They’reassembling at the Crewys Arms, and going to hurryup to the house in a regular procession, band andall.”

“We’re proud of our young hero, you see,”said the canon; and he laid his hand affectionatelyon Peter’s shoulder.

“You will have to say a few words to them,”said Lady Mary.

“Must I?” said the hero. “Let’sgo out on the terrace and see what’s going on.We can watch them the whole way up.”

He opened the door into the south drawing-rooms; andthrough the open windows there floated the distantstrains of the village band.

“Canon, your arm,” said Lady Belstone.

Lady Mary and her son had hastened out on to the terrace.

The old ladies paused in the doorway; they were particularin such matters.

“I believe I take precedence, Georgina,”said Lady Belstone, apologetically.

“I am far from disputing it, Isabella,”said Miss Crewys, drawing back with great dignity.“You are the elder.”

“Age does not count in these matters. Itake precedence, as a married woman. Will youbring up the rear, Georgina, as my poor admiral wouldhave said?”

Miss Crewys bestowed a parting toss of the head uponthe doctor, and followed her victorious sister.

The doctor laughed silently to himself, standing inthe pretty shady drawing-room; now gay with flowers,and chintz, and Dresden china.

“I wonder if she would not have been even moreannoyed with my presumption if I had offeredher my arm,” he said to himself, amusedly, “thanshe is offended by my neglect to do so?”

He did not follow the others into the blinding sunshineof the terrace. He had had a long morning’swork, and was hot and tired. He looked at hiswatch.

“Past one o’clock; h’m! we are luckyif we get anything to eat before half-past two.All the servants have run out, of course. No useringing for whisky and seltzer. All the better.But, at least, one can rest.”

The pleasantness of the room refreshed his spirit.The interior of his own house in Brawnton was notmuch more enticing than the exterior. The doctorhad no time to devote to such matters. He satdown very willingly in a big armchair, and enjoyeda moment’s quiet in the shade; glancing throughthe half-closed green shutters at the brilliant picturewithout.

The top level of the terrace garden was carpeted withpattern beds of heliotrope, and lobelia, and variegatedfoliage. Against the faint blue-green of theopposite hill rose the grey stone urns on the pillarsof the balcony; and from the urns hung trailing ivygeraniums with pink or scarlet blossom, making splashesof colour on the background of grey distance.Round the pillars wound large blue clematis, and whitepassion-flowers.

Lady Mary stood full in the sunshine, which lent oncemore the golden glory of her vanished youth to herbrown hair, and the dazzle of new-fallen snow to hersummer gown.

Close to her side, touching her, stood the young soldier;straight and tall, with uncovered head, towering abovethe little group.

The old sisters had parasols, and the canon wore hisshovel hat; but the doctor wasted no time in observingtheir manifestations of delight and excitement.

“So my beautiful lady has got her precious boyback safe and sound, save for his right arm, and doublyprecious because that is missing. God bless hera thousand times!” he thought to himself.“But her sweet face looked more sorrowful thanjoyful when I came in. What had he been saying,I wonder, to make her look like that, already?”

John Crewys entered from the hall. “What’sthis I hear,” he said, in glad tones—­“thehero returned?”

“Ay,” said the doctor. “SirTimothy is forgotten, and Sir Peter reigns in hisstead.”

“Where is Lady Mary?”

The doctor drew him to the window. “There,”he said grimly. “Why don’t you goout and join her?”

“She has her son,” said John, smiling.

He looked with interest at the group on the terrace;then he started back with an exclamation of horror.

“Why, good heavens—­”

“Yes,” said the doctor quietly, “thepoor fellow has lost his right arm.”

There was a sound of distant cheering, and the bandcould be heard faintly playing the Conquering Hero.

“He said nothing of it,” said John.

“No; he’s a plucky chap, with all hisfaults.”

“Has he so many faults?” said John.

The doctor shook his head. “I’m mistakenif he won’t turn out a chip of the old block.Though he’s better-looking than his father, he’sgot Sir Timothy’s very expression.”

“He’s turned out a gallant soldier, anyway,”said John, cheerily. “Don’t croak,Blundell; we’ll make a man of him yet.”

“Please God you may, for his mother’ssake,” said the doctor; and he returned to hisarmchair.

John Crewys stood by the open French window, and drankin the refreshing breeze which fluttered the muslincurtains. His calm and thoughtful face was turnedaway from the doctor, who knew very well why John’sgaze was so intent upon the group without.

“Shall I warn him, or shall I let it alone?”thought Blundell. “I suppose they havebeen waiting only for this. If that selfish cubobjects, as he will—­I feel very sure ofthat—­will she be weak enough to sacrificeher happiness, or can I trust John Crewys? Helooks strong enough to take care of himself, and ofher.”

He looked at John’s decided profile, silhouettedagainst the curtain, and thought of Peter’snarrow face. “Weak but obstinate,”he muttered to himself. “Shrewd, suspiciouseyes, but a receding chin. What chance wouldthe boy have against a man? A man with strengthto oppose him, and brains to outwit him. None,save for the one undoubted fact—­the boyholds his mother’s heart in the hollow of hiscareless hands.”

There was a tremendous burst of cheering, no longerdistant, and the band played louder.

Lady Mary came hurrying across the terrace. Weepingand agitated, and half blinded by her tears, she stumbledover the threshold of the window, and almost fellinto John’s arms. He drew her into the shadowof the curtain.

“John,” she cried; she saw no one else.“Oh, I can’t bear it! Oh, Peter,Peter, my boy, my poor boy!”

The doctor, with a swift and noiseless movement, turnedthe handle of the window next him, and let himselfout on to the terrace.

When John looked up he was already gone. LadyMary did not hear the slight sound.

“Oh, John,” she said, “my boy’scome home—­but—­but—­”

“I know,” John said, very tenderly.

“I was afraid of breaking down before them all,”she whispered. “Peter was afraid I shouldbreak down, and I felt my weakness, and came away.”

“To me,” said John.

His heart beat strongly. He drew her more closelyinto his arms, deeply conscious that he held thus,for the first time, all he loved best in the world.

“To you,” said poor Lady Mary, very simply;as though aware only of the rest and support thatrefuge offered, and not of all of its strangeness.“Alas! it has grown so natural to come to younow.”

“It will grow more natural every day,”said John.

She shook her head. “There is Peter now,”she said faintly. Then, looking into his face,she realized that John was not thinking of Peter.

For a moment’s space Lady Mary, too, forgotPeter. She leant against the broad shoulder ofthe man who loved her; and felt as though all trouble,and disappointment, and doubt had slidden off her soul,and left her only the blissful certainty of happyrest.

Then she laid her hand very gently and entreatinglyon his arm.

“I will not let you go,” said John.“You came to me—­at last—­ofyour own accord, Mary.”

She coloured deeply and leant away from his arm, lookingup at him in distress.

“I could not help it, John,” she said,very simply and naturally. “But oh, I don’tknow if I can—­if I ought—­to cometo you any more.”

“What do you mean?” said John.

“I—­we—­have been thinkingof Peter as a boy—­as the boy he was whenhe went away,” she said, in low, hurrying tones;“but he has come home a man, and, in some ways,altogether different. He never used to want me;he used to think this place dull, and long to get awayfrom it—­and from me, for that matter.But now he’s—­he’s wounded, asyou know; maimed, my poor boy, for life; and—­andhe’s counting on me to make his home for him.We never thought of that. He says it wouldn’tbe home without me; and he asked my pardon for beingselfish in the past; my poor Peter! I used tofear he had such a little, cold heart; but I was allwrong, for when he was so far away he thought of me,and was sorry he hadn’t loved me more. He’scome home wanting to be everything to me, as I amto be everything to him. And I should have beenso glad, so thankful, only two years ago. Oh,have I changed so much in two little years?”

John put her out of his arms very gently, and walkedtowards the window. His face was pale, but hestill smiled, and his hazel eyes were bright.

“You’re angry, John,” said LadyMary, very sweetly and humbly. “You’vea right to be angry.”

“I am not angry,” he said gently.“I may be—­a little—­disappointed.”He did not look round.

“You know I was too happy,” said poorLady Mary. She sank into a chair, and coveredher face with her hands. “It was wickedof me to be so happy, and now I’m going to bepunished for it.”

John’s great heart melted within him. Hecame swiftly back to her and knelt by her side, andkissed the little hand she gave him.

“Too happy, were you?” he said, with atenderness that rendered his deep voice unsteady.“Because you promised to marry me when Petercame home?”

“That, and—­and everything else,”she whispered. “Life seemed to have widenedout, and grown so beautiful. All the dull, emptyhours were filled. Our music, our reading, ourcompanionship, our long walks and talks, our lettersto each other—­all those pleasures whichyou showed me were at once so harmless and so delightful.And as if that were not enough—­came love.Such love as I had only dreamed of—­suchunderstanding of each other’s every thought andword, as I did not know was possible between man andwoman—­or at least”—­shecorrected herself sadly—­“betweenany man and a woman—­of my age.”

“You talk of your age,” said John, smilingtenderly, “as though it were a crime.”

“It is not a crime, but it is a tragedy,”said Lady Mary. “Age is a tragedy to everywoman who wants to be happy.”

“No more, surely, than to every man who loveshis work, and sees it slipping from his grasp,”said John, slowly. “It’s a tragedywe all have to face, for that matter.”

“But so much later,” said Lady Mary, quickly.

“I don’t see why women should leave offwanting to be happy any sooner than men,” hesaid stoutly.

“But Nature does,” she answered.

John’s eyes twinkled. “For my part,I am thankful to fate, which caused me to fall inlove with a woman only ten years my junior, insteadof with a girl young enough to be my daughter.I have gained a companion as well as a wife; and marvellouslyadaptive as young women are, I am conceited enoughto think my ideas have travelled beyond the ideasof most girls of eighteen; and I am not conceited enoughto suppose the girl of eighteen would not find mean old fogey very much in the way. Let boys matewith girls, say I, and men with women.”

Lady Mary smiled in spite of herself. “Youknow, John, you would argue entirely the other wayround if you happened to be in love with—­Sarah,”she said.

“To be sure,” said John; “it’smy trade to argue for the side which retains my services.I am your servant, thank Heaven, and not Sarah’s.And I have no intention of quitting your service,”he added, more gravely. “We have settledthe question of the future.”

“The empty future that suddenly grew so bright,”said Lady Mary, dreamily. “Do you rememberhow you talked of—­Italy?”

“Where we shall yet spend our honeymoon,”said John. “But I believe you liked betterto hear of my shabby rooms in London which you meantto share.”

“Of course,” she said simply. “Iknew I should bring you so little money.”

“And you thought barristers always lived fromhand to mouth, and made no allowance for my havinggot on in my profession.”

“Ah! what did it matter?”

“I think you will find it makes just a littledifference,” John said, smiling.

“Outside circ*mstances make less differenceto women than men suppose,” said Lady Mary.“They are, oh, so willing to be pampered inluxury; and, oh, so willing to fly to the other extreme,and do without things.”

“Are they really?” said John, rather dryly.

He glanced at the little, soft, white hand he held,and smiled. It looked so unfitted to help itself.

Lady Mary was resting in her armchair, her delicateface still flushed with emotion. A transparentpurple shade beneath the blue eyes betrayed that shehad been weeping; but she was calmed by John’sstrong and tranquil presence. The shady room wascool and fragrant with the scent of heliotrope andmignonette.

The band had reached a level plateau below the terracegarden, and was playing martial airs to encouragestragglers in the procession, and to give the principalinhabitants of Youlestone time to arrive, and to regaintheir wind after the steep ascent.

Every time a batch of new arrivals recognized Peter’stall form on the terrace, a fresh burst of cheeringrose.

From all sides of the valley, hurrying figures couldbe seen approaching Barracombe House.

The noise and confusion without seemed to increasethe sense of quiet within, and the sounds of the gatheringcrowd made them feel apart and alone together as theyhad never felt before.

“So all our dreams are to be shattered,”said John, quietly, “because your prayer hasbeen granted, and Peter has come home?”

“If you could have heard all he said,”she whispered sadly. “He has come homeloving me, trusting me, dependent on me, as he hasnever been before, since his babyhood. Don’tyou see—­that even if it breaks my heart,I couldn’t fail my boy—­just now?”

There was a pause, and she regarded him anxiously;her hands were clasped tightly together in the effortto still their trembling, her blue eyes looked imploring.

John knew very well that it lay within his powersto make good his claim upon that gentle heart, andenforce his will and her submission to it. Butthe strongest natures are those which least inclineto tyranny; and he had already seen the results ofcoercion upon that bright and joyous, but timid nature.He knew that her love for him was of the fanciful,romantic, high-flown order; and as such, it appealedto every chivalrous instinct within him. Thoughhis love for her was, perhaps, of a different kind,he desired her happiness and her peace of mind, asstrongly as he desired her companionship and the sympathywhich was to brighten his lonely life. He wassilent for a moment, considering how he should act.If love counselled haste, common sense suggested patience.

“I couldn’t disappoint him now. Yousee that, John?” said the anxious, gentle voice.

“I am afraid I do see it, Mary,” he said.“Our secret must remain our secret for the present.”

“God bless you, John!” said Lady Mary,softly. “You always understand.”

“I am old enough, at least, to know that happinesscannot be attained by setting duty aside,” hesaid, as cheerfully as he could.

There was a pause in the music outside, and a voicewas heard speaking.

John rose and straightened himself.

“Have you decided what is to be done—­whatwe had best do?” she said timidly.

“I am going to prove that a lover can be devoted,and yet perfectly reasonable; in defiance of all traditionto the contrary,” he said gaily. “Ishall return to town as soon as I can decently getaway—­probably to-morrow.”

She uttered a cry. “You are going to leaveme?”

“I must give place to Peter.”

She came to his side, and clung to his arm as thoughterrified by the success of her own appeal.

“But you’ll come back?”

“I have to account for my stewardship when Petercomes of age in the autumn,” he said, smilingdown upon her.

She was too quick of perception not to know that strength,and courage, too, were needed for the smile wherewithJohn strove to hide a disappointment too deep forwords. He answered the look she gave him; a lookwhich implored forgiveness, understanding, even encouragement.

“I’m not yielding a single inch of myclaim upon you when the time comes, my darling; onlyI think, with you, that the time has not come yet.I think Peter may reasonably expect to be consideredfirst for the present; and that you should be freeto devote your whole attention to him, especiallyas he has such praiseworthy intentions. We willpostpone the whole question until the autumn, whenhe comes of age; and when I shall, consequently, beable to tackle him frankly, man to man, and not asone having authority and abusing that same,”he laughed. “Meantime, we must be patient.Write often, but not so often as to excite remark;and I shall return in the autumn.”

“To stay?”

“Ah!” said John, “that depends onyou.”

He had not meant to be satirical, but the slight inflectionof his tone cut Lady Mary to the heart.

Her vivid imagination saw her conduct in its worstlight: vacillating, feeble, deserting the manshe loved at the moment she had led him to expecttriumph; dismissing her faithful servant without hisreward. Then, in a flash, came the other sideof the picture—­the mother of a grown-upson—­a wounded soldier dependent on her love—­seekingher personal happiness as though there existed no pastmemories, no present duties, to hinder the fulfillingof her own belated romance.

“Oh, John,” said Lady Mary, “tellme what to do? No, no; don’t tell me—­orI shall do it—­and I mustn’t.”

“My darling,” he said, “I only tellyou to wait.” He rallied himself to speakcheerfully, and to bring the life and colour back toher sad, white face.

“Just at this moment I quite realize I shouldbe a disturbing element, and I am going to get myselfout of the way as quickly as politeness permits.And you are to devote yourself to Peter, and not tobe torn with self-reproach. If we act sensibly,and don’t precipitate matters, nobody need havea grievance, and Peter and I will be the best of friendsin the future, I hope. There is little use inhaving grown-up wits if we snatch our happiness atthe expense of other people’s feelings, as youngfolk so often do.”

The twinkle in his bright eyes, and the kindly humourof his smile, restored her shaken self-confidence.

“Oh, John, no one else could ever understand—­asyou understand. If only Peter—­”

“Peter is a boy,” said John, “dreamingas a boy dreams, resolving as a boy resolves; andhis dreams and his resolutions are as light as thistledown:the first breath of a new fancy, or a fresh interest,will blow them away. I put my faith in the future,in the near future. Time works wonders.”

He stooped and kissed her hands, one after the other,with a possessive tenderness that told her betterthan words, that he had not resigned his claims.

“Now I’ll go and offer my congratulationsto the hero of the day,” said John. “Imust not put off any longer; and it is quite settledthat our secret is to remain our secret—­forthe present.”

Then he stepped out on to the terrace, and Lady Marylooked after him with a little sigh and smile.

She lifted a hand-mirror from the silver table thatstood at her elbow, and shook her head over it.

“It’s all very well for him, and it’sall very well for Peter,” she said; “butTime—­Time is my worst enemy.”

CHAPTER XIII

Sarah Hewel ran into the drawing-room before LadyMary found courage to put her newly gained composureto the test, by joining the crowd on the terrace.

“Oh, Lady Mary, are you there?” she cried,pausing in her eager passage to the window. “Ithought you would be out-of-doors with the others!”

“Sarah, my dear!” said Lady Mary, kissingher.

“I—­I saw all the people,” saidSarah, in a breathless, agitated way, “I heardthe news, and I wasn’t sure whether I ought tocome to luncheon all the same or not; so I slippedin by the side door to see whether I could find someone to ask quietly. Oh!” cried Sarah, throwingher arms impetuously round Lady Mary’s neck,“tell me it isn’t true?”

“My boy has come home,” said Lady Mary.

Sarah turned from red to white, and from white tored again.

“But they said,” she faltered—­“theysaid he—­”

“Yes, my dear,” said Lady Mary, understanding;and the tears started to her own eyes. “Peterhas lost an arm, but otherwise—­otherwise,”she said, in trembling tones, “my boy is safeand sound.”

Sarah turned away her face and cried.

Lady Mary was touched. “Why, Sarah!”she said; and she drew the girl down beside her onthe sofa and kissed her softly.

“I am sorry to be so silly,” said Sarah,recovering herself. “It isn’t a bitlike me, is it?”

“It is like you, I think, to have a warm heart,”said Lady Mary, “though you don’t showit to every one; and, after all, you and Peter areold friends—­playmates all your lives.”

“It’s been like a lump of lead on my heartall these months and years,” said Sarah, “tothink how I scoffed at Peter in the Christmas holidaysbefore he went to the war, because my brothers hadgone, whilst he stayed at home. Perhaps thatwas the reason he went. I used to lie awake atnight sometimes, thinking that if Peter were killedit would be all my fault. And now his arm hasgone—­and Tom and Willie came back safelylong ago.” She cried afresh.

“It may not have been that at all,” saidLady Mary, consolingly. “I don’tthink Peter was a boy to take much notice of what agoose of a little girl said. He felt he was aman, and ought to go—­and his grandfatherwas a soldier—­it is in the blood of theSetouns to want to fight for their country,”said Lady Mary, with a smile and a little thrill ofpride; for, after all, if her boy were a Crewys, hewas also a Setoun. “Besides, poor child,you were so young; you didn’t think; you didn’tknow—­”

“You always make excuses for me,” saidSarah, with subdued enthusiasm; “but I understandbetter now what it means—­to send an onlyson away from his mother.”

“The young take responsibility so lightly,”said Lady Mary. “But now he has come home,my darling, why, you needn’t reproach yourselfany longer. It is good of you to care so muchfor my boy.”

“It—­it isn’t only that.Of course, I was always fond of Peter,” saidSarah; “but even if I had nothing to do withhis going”—­her voice sounded incredulous—­“youknow how one feels over our soldiers coming home—­anda boy who has given his right arm for England.It makes one so choky and yet so proud—­Ican’t say all I mean—­but you know—­”

“Yes, I know,” said Lady Mary; and shesmiled, but the tears were rolling down her cheeks.

“And what it must be to you,” sobbedSarah, “the day you were to have been so happy,to see him come back like that! No wonderyou are sad. One feels one could never do enoughto—­to make it up to him.”

“But I’m far more happy than sad,”said Lady Mary; and to prove her words she leant backupon the cushions and cried.

“You’re not,” said Sarah, kneelingby her; “how can you be, my darling, sweet LadyMary? But you must be happy,” shesaid; and her odd, deep tones took a note of coaxingthat was hard to resist. “Think how proudevery one will be of him, and how—­how allthe other mothers will envy you! You—­youmustn’t care so terribly. It—­itisn’t as if he had to work for his living.It won’t make any real difference to his life.And he’ll let you do everything for him—­evenwrite his letters—­”

“Oh, Sarah, Sarah, stop!” said Lady Mary,faintly. “It—­it isn’tthat.”

“Not that!” said Sarah, changing her tone.She pounced on the admission like a cat on a mouse.“Then why do you cry?”

Lady Mary looked up confused into the severely inquiringyoung face.

Sarah’s apple-blossom beauty, as was to havebeen expected, had increased a thousand-fold sinceher school girl days. She had grown tall to matchthe plumpness of her figure, which had not decreased.Her magnificent hair showed its copper redness in everyvariety of curl and twist upon her white forehead,and against her whiter throat.

She was no longer dressed in blue cotton. LadyTintern knew how to give such glorious colouring itstrue value. A gauzy, transparent black flowedover a close-fitting white gown beneath, and veiledher fair arms and neck. Black bebe ribbon gatheredin coquettishly the folds which shrouded Sarah’sabundant charms, and a broad black sash confined herround young waist. A black chip hat shaded theglowing hair and the face, “ruddier than thecherry, and whiter than milk;” and the merry,dark blue eyes had a penthouse of their own, of droopinglashes, which redeemed the boldness of their frankand open gaze.

“If it is not that—­why do you cry?”she demanded imperiously.

“It’s—­just happiness,”said Lady Mary.

Sarah looked wise, and shook her head. “Ohno,” she quoth. “Those aren’thappy tears.”

“You’re too old, dear Sarah, to be anenfant terrible still,” said Lady Mary;but Sarah was not so easily disarmed.

“I will know! Come, I’m your godchild,and you always spoil me. He’s not comeback in one of his moods, has he?”

“Who?” cried Lady Mary, colouring.

“Who! Why, who are we talking of but Peter?”said Sarah, opening her big-pupilled eyes.

“Oh no, no! He’s changed entirely—­”

“Changed!”

“I don’t mean exactly changed, but he’s—­he’sgrown so loving and so sweet—­not that hewasn’t always loving in his heart, but—­

“Oh,” cried Sarah, impatiently, “asif I didn’t know Peter! But if it wasn’tthat which made you so unhappy, what was it?”She bent puzzled brows upon her embarrassed hostess.

“Let me go, Sarah; you ask too much!”said Lady Mary. “Oh no, my darling, I’mnot angry! How could I be angry with my littleloyal Sarah, who’s always loved me so?It’s only that I can’t bear to be questionedjust now.” She caressed the girl eagerly,almost apologetically. “I must have a fewmoments to recover myself. I’ll go quietlyaway into the study—­anywhere. Waitfor me here, darling, and make some excuse for meif any one comes. I want to be alone for a fewmoments. Peter mustn’t find me crying again.”

“Yes—­that’s all very well,”said Sarah to herself, as the slight form hurriedfrom the drawing-room into the dark oak hall beyond.“But why is she unhappy? There issomething else.”

It was Dr. Blundell who found the answer to Sarah’sriddle.

He had seen the signs of weeping on Lady Mary’sface as she stumbled over the threshold of the windowinto the very arms of John Crewys, and his feelingswere divided between passionate sympathy with hisdivinity, and anger with the returned hero, who hadno doubt reduced his mother to this distressful state.The doctor was blinded by love and misery, and readyto suspect the whole world of doing injustice to thislady; though he believed himself to be destitute ofjealousy, and capable of judging Peter with perfectimpartiality.

His fancy leapt far ahead of fact; and he supposed,not only that Lady Mary must be engaged to John Crewys,but that she must have confided her engagement toher son, and that Peter had already forbidden thebanns.

He wandered miserably about the grounds, within hearingof the rejoicings; and had just made up his mind thathe ought to go and join the speechmakers, when heperceived John Crewys himself standing next to Peter,apparently on the best possible terms with the heroof the day.

The doctor hastened round to the hall, intending toenter the drawing-room unobserved, and find out forhimself whether Lady Mary had recovered, or whetherJohn Crewys had heartlessly abandoned her to her grief.

The brilliant vision Miss Sarah presented, as shestood, drawn up to her full height, in the shadeddrawing-room, met his anxious gaze as he entered.

“Why, Miss Sarah! Not gone back to Londonyet? I thought you only came down for Whitsuntide.”

“Mamma wasn’t well, so I am staying onfor a few days. I am supposed to be nursing her,”said Sarah, demurely.

She was a favourite with the doctor, as she was verywell aware, and, in consequence, was always exceedinglygracious to him.

“Where is Lady Mary?” he asked.

She stole to his side, and put her finger on her lips,and lowered her voice.

“She went through the hall—­into thestudy. And she’s alone—­crying.”

“Crying!” said the doctor; and he madea step towards the open door, but Sarah’s strong,white hand held him fast.

“Play fair,” she said reproachfully; “Itold you in confidence. You can’t supposeshe wants you to see her crying.”

“No, no,” said the poor doctor, “ofcourse not—­of course not.”

She closed the doors between the rooms. “Lookhere, Dr. Blundell, we’ve always been friends,haven’t we, you and me?”

“Ever since I had the honour of ushering youinto the world you now adorn,” said the doctor,with an ironical bow.

“Then tell me the truth,” said Sarah.“Why is she unhappy, to-day of all days?”

The doctor looked uneasily away from her. “Perhaps—­thejoy of Peter’s return has been too much forher,” he suggested.

“Yes,” said Sarah. “That’swhat we’ll tell the other people. But youand I—­why, Dr. Blunderbuss,” she saidreproachfully, using the name she had given him inher saucy childhood, “you know how I’veworshipped Lady Mary ever since I was a little girl?”

“Yes, yes, my dear, I know,” said thedoctor.

“You love her too, don’t you?” saidSarah.

He started. “I—­I love Lady Mary!What do you mean?” he said, almost violently.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that sort oflove,” said Sarah, watching him keenly.Then she laid her plump hand gently on his shabby sleeve.“I wouldn’t have said it, if I’dthought—­”

“Thought what?” said the doctor, agitated.

“What I think now,” said Sarah.

He walked up and down in a silence she was too wiseto break. When he looked at her again, Sarahwas leaning against the piano. She had takenoff the picture-hat, and was swinging it absently toand fro by the black ribbons which had but now beentied beneath her round, white chin. She presenteda charming picture—­and it is possible sheknew it—­as she stood in that restful pose,with her long lashes pointed downwards towards herbuckled shoes.

The doctor stopped in front of her. “Youare too quick for me, Sarah. You always were,even as a little girl,” he said. “You’vesurprised my—­my poor secret. You canlaugh at the old doctor now, if you like.”

“I don’t feel like laughing,” saidSarah, simply. “And your secret is safewith me. I’m honest; you know that.”

“Yes, my dear; I know that. God bless you!”said the doctor.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Blundell,” saidSarah, softly.

The deep voice which came from the full, white chest,and which had once been so unmanageable, was one ofSarah’s surest weapons now.

When she sang, she counted her victims by the dozen;when she lowered it, as she lowered it now, to speakonly to one man, every note went straight to his heart—­ifhe had an ear for music and a heart for love.

When Sarah said, in these dulcet tones, therefore,that she was sorry for her old friend, the tears gatheredto the doctor’s kind, tired eyes.

“For me!” he said gratefully. “Oh,you mustn’t be sorry for me. She—­shecould hardly be further out of my reach, youknow, if she were—­an angel in heaven, insteadof being what she is—­an angel on earth.It is—­of her that I was thinking.”

“I know,” said Sarah; “but she hasbeen looking so bright and hopeful, ever since weheard Peter was coming home—­until to-day—­whenhe has actually come; and that is what puzzles me.”

“To-day—­to-day!” said the doctor,as though to himself. “Yes; it was to-dayI saw her touch happiness timidly, and come face toface with disappointment.”

“You saw her?”

“Oh, when one loves,” he said bitterly,“one has intuitions which serve as well as eyesand ears. You will know all about it one day,little Sarah.”

“Shall I?” said Sarah. She turnedher face away from the doctor.

“You’ve not been here very much lately,”he said, “but you’ve been here long enoughto guess her secret, as you—­you’veguessed mine. Eh? You needn’t pretend,for my sake, to misunderstand me.”

“I wasn’t going to,” said Sarah,gently.

“John Crewys is the very man I would have chosen—­Idid choose him,” said the doctor, looking ather almost fiercely. It was an odd consolationto him to believe he had first led John Crewys tointerest himself in Lady Mary. He recognized hisrival’s superior qualifications very fully andhumbly. “You know all about it, Miss Sarah,don’t tell me; so quick as you are to find outwhat doesn’t concern you.”

“I saw that—­Mr. John Crewys—­likedher,” said Sarah, in a low voice; “but,then, so does everybody. I wasn’t sure—­Icouldn’t believe that she—­”

“You haven’t watched as I have,”he groaned; “you haven’t seen the sparklecome back to her eye, and the colour to her cheek.You haven’t watched her learning to laugh andsing and enjoy her innocent days as Nature bade; sinceshe has dared to be herself. It was love thattaught her an that.”

“Love!” said Sarah.

Her soft, red lips parted; and her breath quickenedwith a sudden sensation of mingled interest, sympathy,and amusem*nt.

“Ay, love,” said the doctor, half angrily.He detected the deepening of Sarah’s dimples.“And I am an old fool to talk to you like this.You children think that love is reserved for boys andgirls, like you and—­and Peter.”

“I don’t know what Peter has to do withit,” said Sarah, pouting.

“I heard Peter explaining to his tenants justnow,” said the doctor, with a harsh laugh, “thathe was going to settle down here for good and all—­withhis mother; that nothing was to be changed from hisfather’s time. Something in his words wouldhave made me understand the look on his mother’sface, even if I hadn’t read it right—­already.She will sacrifice her love for John Crewys to herlove for her son; and by the time Peter finds out—­asin the course of nature he will find out—­thathe can do without his mother, her chance of happinesswill be gone for ever.”

Sarah looked a little queerly at the doctor.

“Then the sooner Peter finds out,” shesaid slowly, “that he can live without his mother,the better. Doesn’t that seem strange?”

“Perhaps,” said the doctor, heavily.“But life gives us so few opportunities of agreat happiness as we grow older, little Sarah.The possibilities that once seemed so boundless, liein a circle which narrows round us, day by day.Some day you’ll find that out too.”

There was a sudden outburst of cheering.

Sarah started forward. “Dr. Blundell,”she said energetically, “you’ve told meall I wanted to know. She sha’n’tbe unhappy if I can help it.”

“You!” said the doctor, shrugging hisshoulders rather rudely. “I don’tsee what you can do.”

Sarah reddened with lofty indignation. “Itwould be very odd if you did,” she said spitefully;“you’re only a man, when all is said anddone. But if you’ll only promise not tointerfere, I’ll manage it beautifully all bymyself.”

“What will you do?” said the doctor, inattentively;and his blindness to Sarah’s charms and herpowers made her almost pity such obtuseness.

“I will go and fetch Lady Mary, for one thing,and cheer her up.”

“Not a word to her!” he cried, startingup; “remember, I told you in confidence—­thoughwhy I was such a fool—­”

“Am I likely to forget?” said Sarah; “andyou will see one day whether you were a fool to tellme.” She said to herself, despairingly,that the stupidity of mankind was almost past prayingfor. As the doctor opened the door for Sarah,Lady Mary herself walked into the room.

She had removed all traces of tears from her face,and, though she was still very pale, she was quitecomposed, and ready to smile at them both.

“Were you coming to fetch me?” she said,taking Sarah’s arm affectionately. “Dr.Blundell, I am afraid luncheon will be terribly late.The servants have all gone off their heads in the confusion,as was to be expected. The noise and the welcomeupset me so that I dared not go out on the terraceagain. Ash has just been to tell me it’sall over, and that Peter made a capital speech; quiteas good as Mr. John’s, he said; but that ishardly a compliment to our K.C.,” she laughed.“I’m afraid Ash is prejudiced.”

“Ash was doing the honours with all his might,”said the doctor, gruffly; “handing round ciderby the hogshead. Hallo! the speeches must bereally all over,” he said, for, above vociferouscheering, the strains of the National Anthem couldjust be discerned.

Peter came striding across the terrace, and lookedin at the open window.

“Are you better again, mother?” he called.“Could you come out now? They’vedone at last, but they’re calling for you.”

“Yes, yes; I’m quite ready. I won’tbe so silly again,” said Lady Mary.

But Peter did not listen. “Why—­”he said, and stopped short.

“Surely you haven’t forgotten Sarah,”said Lady Mary, laughing—­“your littleplaymate Sarah? But perhaps I ought to say MissHewel now.”

“How do you do, Sir Peter?” said Sarah,in a very stately manner. “I am very gladto be here to welcome you home.”

Peter, foolishly embarrassed, took the hand she offeredwith such gracious composure, and blushed all overhis thin, tanned face.

“I—­I should hardly have known you,”he stammered.

“Really?” said Sarah.

“Won’t you,” said Peter, still lookingat her, “join us on the terrace?”

“The people aren’t calling for me”said Sarah.

“But it might amuse you,” said Peter,deferentially.

He put up his eyeglass—­but though Sarah’sred lip quivered, she did not laugh.

“It’s rather jolly, really,” hesaid. “They’ve got banners, and flags,and processions, and things. Won’t you come?”

“Well—­I will,” said Sarah.She accepted his help in descending the step withthe air of a princess. “But they’llbe so disappointed to see me instead of your mother.”

“Disappointed to see you!” saidPeter, stupefied.

She stepped forth, laughing, and Peter followed herclosely. John Crewys stood aside to let thempass. Lady Mary, half amazed and half amused,realized suddenly that her son had forgotten he cameback to fetch her. She hesitated on the threshold.More cheers and confused shouting greeted Peter’sreappearance on the balcony. He turned and wavedto his mother, and the canon came hurrying over thegrass.

“The people are shouting for Lady Mary; theywant Lady Mary,” he cried.

John Crewys looked at her with a smile, and held outhis hand, and she stepped over the sill, and wentaway across the terrace garden with him.

The doctor turned his face from the crowd, and wentback alone into the empty room.

“Who doesn’t want Lady Mary?”he said to himself, forlornly.

CHAPTER XIV

Peter stood on his own front door steps, on the shadyside of the house, in the fresh air of the early morning.The unnecessary eyeglass twinkled on his breast ashe looked forth upon the goodliness and beauty ofhis inheritance. The ever-encroaching green ofsummer had not yet overpowered the white wealth offlowering spring; for the season was a late one, andthe month of June still young.

The apple-trees were yet in blossom, and the snowyorchards were scattered over the hillsides betweenpatches of golden gorse. The lilacs, white andpurple, were in flower, amid scarlet rhododendronsand branching pink and yellow tree-azaleas. Theweeping barberry showered gold dust upon the road.

On the lower side of the drive, the rolling grassslopes were thriftily left for hay; a flowering massof daisies, and buttercups, and red clover, and bluespeedwell.

A long way off, but still clearly visible in the valleybelow, glistened the stone-tiled roof of the old square-toweredchurch, guarded by its sentinel yews.

A great horse-chestnut stood like a giant bouquetof waxen bloom beside a granite monument which threwa long shadow over the green turf mounds towards thewest, and marked the grave of Sir Timothy Crewys.

Peter saw that monument more plainly just now thanall the rest of his surroundings, although he wasshort-sighted, and although his eyes were furtherdimmed by sudden tears.

His memories of his father were not particularly tenderones, and his grief was only natural filial sentimentin its vaguest and lightest form. But such asit was—­the sight of the empty study, whichwas to be his own room in future; the strange granitemonument shining in the sun; the rush of home associationswhich the familiar landscape aroused—­augmentedit for the time being, and made the young man gladof a moment’s solitude.

There was the drooping ash—­which had madesuch a cool, refreshing tent in summer—­wherehe had learnt his first lessons at his mother’sknee, and where he had kept his rabbit-hutch for aseason, until his father had found it out, and despatchedit to the stable-yard.

His punishments and the troubles of his childhoodhad always been associated with his father, and itspleasures and indulgences with his mother; but neitherhad made any very strong impression on Peter’smind, and it was of his father that he thought withmost sympathy, and even most affection. Partly,doubtless, because Sir Timothy was dead, and becausePeter’s memories were not vivid ones, any morethan his imagination was vivid; but also because hismind was preoccupied with a vague resentment againsthis mother.

He could not understand the change which was, nevertheless,so evident. Her new-born brightness and easeof manner, and her strangely increased loveliness,which had been yet more apparent on the previous evening,when she was dressed for dinner, than on his firstarrival.

It was absurd, Peter thought, in all the arroganceof disdainful youth, that a woman of her age shouldhave learnt to care for her appearance thus; or towear becoming gowns, and arrange her hair like a fashionplate.

If it had been Sarah he could have understood.

At the thought of Sarah the colour suddenly flushedacross his thin, tanned face, and he moved uneasily.

Sarah, too, was changed; but not even Peter couldregret the change in Sarah.

The loveliness of his mother, refined and white anddelicate as she was, did not appeal to him; but Sarah,in her radiant youth, with her brilliant colouring—­freshas a May morning, buxom as a dairymaid, scornful asa princess—­had struck Sir Peter dumb withadmiration, though he had hitherto despised youngwomen. It almost enraged him to remember thatthis stately beauty had ever been an impudent littleschoolgirl, with a turned-up nose and a red pigtail.In days gone by, Miss Sarah had actually fought andscratched the spoilt boy, who tried to tyrannize overhis playmate as he tyrannized over his mother andhis aunts. On the other hand, the recollectionof those early days also became precious to Peterfor the first time.

Sarah!

It was difficult to be sentimental on the subject,but difficulties are easily surmounted by a lover;and though Sarah’s childhood afforded few facilitiesfor ecstatic reverie, still—­there had beenmoments, and especially towards the end of the holidays,when he and Sarah had walked on the banks of the river,with arms round each other’s necks, sharingeach other’s toffee and confidences.

Poor Sarah had been first despatched to a boardingschool as unmanageable, at the age of seven, and thereafterher life had been a changeful one, since her fathercould not live without her, and her mother would notkeep her at home. She had always presented a livelycontrast to her elder brothers, who were all that aparent’s heart could desire, and too old tobe much interested in their little rebellious sister.

Her high spirits survived disgrace and punishmentand periodical banishment. Though not destituteof womanly qualities, she was more remarkable forhoydenish ones; and her tastes were peculiar and varied.If there were a pony to break in, a sick child to benursed, a groom to scold, a pig to be killed—­therewas Sarah; but if a frock to try on, a visit to bepaid, a note to be written—­where was she?

Peter, recalling these things, tried to laugh at himselffor his extraordinary infatuation of the previousday; but he knew very well in his heart that he couldnot really laugh, and that he had lain awake halfthe night thinking of her.

Sarah had spent the rest of the day at Barracombeafter Peter’s return, and had been escortedhome late in the evening. Could he ever forgetthose moments on the terrace, when she had paced upand down beside him, in the pleasant summer darkness;her white neck and arms gleaming through transparentblack tulle; sometimes listening to the sounds ofmusic and revelry in the village below, and lookingat the rockets that were being let off on the river-banks;and sometimes asking him of the war, in that low voicewhich thrilled Peter as it had already thrilled nota few interested hearers before him?

Those moments had been all too few, because John Crewysalso had monopolized a share of Miss Sarah’sattention. Peter did not dislike his guardian,whose composed courtesy and absolute freedom fromself-consciousness, or any form of affectation, madeit difficult indeed not to like him. His remarksmade Peter smile in spite of himself, though he couldnot keep the ball of conversation rolling like MissSarah, who was not at all afraid of the great counsel,but matched his pleasant wit, with a most engagingimpudence all her own.

Lady Mary had stood clasping her son’s arm,full of thankfulness for his safe return; but she,too, had been unable to help laughing at John, whopurposely exerted himself to amuse her and to keepher from dwelling upon their parting on the morrow.

Her thoughtful son insisted that she must avoid exposureto the night air, and poor Lady Mary had somewhatruefully returned to the society of the old ladieswithin; but John Crewys did not, as he might, and asPeter had supposed he would, join the other old folk.Peter classed his mother and aunts together, quitecalmly, in his thoughts. He listened to Sarah’slight talk with John, watching her like a man in adream, hardly able to speak himself; and it is needlessto say that he found her chatter far more interestingand amusing than anything John could say.

Who could have dreamt that little Sarah would growup into this bewitching maiden? There was a girlcoming home on board ship, the young wife of an officer,whom every one had raved about and called so beautiful.Peter almost laughed aloud as he contrasted Sarah withhis recollections of this lady.

How easy it was to talk to Sarah! How much easierthan to his mother; whom, nevertheless, he loved sodearly, though always with that faint dash of disapprovalwhich somehow embittered his love.

He could not shake off the impression of her firstappearance, coming singing down the oak staircase,in her white gown. His mother! Dressed almostlike a girl, and, worst of all, looking almost likea girl, so slight and white and delicate. Peterrecollected that Sir Timothy had been very particularabout his wife’s apparel. He liked it tobe costly and dignified, and she had worn stiff silksand poplins inappropriate to the country, but consideredeminently suited to her position by the Brawnton dressmaker.And her hair had been parted on her forehead, andsmoothed over her little ears. Sir Timothy didnot approve of curling-irons and frippery.

Peter did not know that his mother had cried overher own appearance often, before she became indifferent;and if he had known, he would have thought it onlytypical of the weakness and frivolity which he hadheard attributed to Lady Mary from his earliest childhood.

His aunts were not intentionally disloyal to theirsister-in-law; but their disapproval of her was toostrong to be hidden, and they regarded a little boyas blind and deaf to all that did not directly concernhis lessons or his play. Thus Peter had grownup loving his mother, but disapproving of her, andthe disapproval was sometimes more apparent than thelove.

After breakfast the new squire took an early walkwith his guardian, and inspected a few of the changeswhich had taken place in the administration of histiny kingdom. Though Peter was young and inexperienced,he could not be blind to the immense improvements made.

He had left a house and stables shabby and tumble-downand out of repair; rotting woodwork, worn-off paint,and missing tiles had been painfully evident.Broken fences and hingeless gates were the rule, andnot the exception, in the grounds.

Now all deficiencies had been made good by a cunninghand that had allowed no glaring newness to be visible;a hand that had matched old tiles, and patched oldwalls, and planted creepers, and restored an almostmagical order and comfort to Peter’s beautifulold house.

Where Sir Timothy’s grumbling tenants had walkedto the nearest brook for water, they now found pipesbrought to their own cottage doors. The home-farm,stables, yards, and cowsheds were drained and paved;fallen outbuildings replaced, uneven roads gravelledand rolled; dead trees removed, and young ones planted,shrubberies trimmed, and views long obscured oncemore opened out.

Peter did not need the assurances of Mr. Crawley tobe aware that his inheritance would be handed backto him improved a thousand-fold.

He was astounded to find how easily John had arrangedmatters over which his father had grumbled and hesitatedfor years. Even the dispute with the Crown hadbeen settled by Mr. Crawley without difficulty, nowthat Sir Timothy’s obstinacy no longer stoodin the way of a reasonable compromise.

John Crewys had faithfully carried out the instructionsof the will; and there were many thousands yet leftof the sum placed at his disposal for the improvementsof the estate; a surplus which would presently beinvested for Peter’s benefit, and added to thatcarefully tied-up capital over which Sir Timothy hadgiven his heir no discretionary powers.

Peter spent a couple of hours walking about with John,and took an intelligent interest in all that had beendone, from the roof and chimney-pots of the house,to the new cider-mill and stable fittings; but thoughhe was civil and amiable, he expressed no particulargratitude nor admiration on his return to the hall,where his mother eagerly awaited him.

It consoled her to perceive that he was on excellentterms with his guardian, offering to accompany himin the dog-cart to Brawnton, whither John was bound,to catch the noon express to town.

“You will have him all to yourself after this,”said John Crewys, smiling down upon Lady Mary duringhis brief farewell interview, which took place inthe oriel window of the banqueting-hall, within sight,though not within hearing, of the two old sisters.“I am sorry to take him off to Brawnton, butI could hardly refuse his company.”

“No, no; I am only glad you should take everyopportunity of knowing him better,” she said.

“And you will be happier without any dividedfeelings at stake,” he said. “Giveyourself up entirely to Peter for the next three orfour months, without any remorse concerning me.For the present, at least, I shall be hard at work,with little enough time to spare for sentiment.”There was a tender raillery in his tone, which sheunderstood. “When I come back we will facethe situation, according to circ*mstances. By-the-by,I suppose it is not to be thought of that Miss Sarahshould prolong her Whitsuntide holidays much further?”

“She ought to have returned to town earlier,but Mrs. Hewel was ill,” said Lady Mary.“She is a tiresome woman. She moved heavenand earth to get rid of poor Sarah, and, now the childhas had a succes, she is always clamouringfor her to come back.”

“Ah!” said John, thoughtfully, “andyou will moot to Peter the scheme for taking a housein town? But I should advise you to be guidedby his wishes over that. Still, it would be verydelightful to meet during our time of waiting; andthat would be the only way. I won’t comedown here again until I can declare myself. Itis a—­false position, under the circ*mstances.”

“I know; I understand,” said Lady Mary;“but I am afraid Peter won’t want to stirfrom home. He is so glad to be back, poor boy,one can hardly blame him; and he shares his father’sprejudices against London.”

“Does he, indeed?” said John, rather dryly.“Well, make the most of your summer with him.You will get only too much London—­inthe near future.”

“Perhaps,” Lady Mary said, smiling.

But, in spite of herself, John’s confidencecommunicated itself to her.

When Peter and John had departed, Lady Mary went andsat alone in the quiet of the fountain garden, atthe eastern end of the terrace. The thick hedgesand laurels which sheltered it had been duly thinnedand trimmed, to allow the entrance of the morningsunshine. Roses and lilies bloomed brightly roundthe fountain now, but it was still rather a lonelyand deserted spot, and silent, save for the sighingof the wind, and the tinkle of the dropping waterin the stone basin.

A young copper beech, freed from its rankly increasingenemies of branching laurel and encroaching bramble,now spread its glory of transparent ruddy leaf inthe sunshine above trim hedges, here and there diversifiedby the pale gold of a laburnum, or the violet clustersof a rhododendron in full flower. Rare ferns fringedthe edges of the little fountain, where diminutivereptiles whisked in and out of watery homes, or satmotionless on the brink, with fixed, glassy eyes.

Lady Mary had come often to this quiet corner forrest and peace and solitude in days gone by.She came often still, because she had a fancy thatthe change in her favourite garden was typical of thechange in her life,—­the letting-in of thesunshine, where before there had been only deepestshade; the pinks and forget-me-nots which were gailyblowing, where only moss and fungi had flourished;the blooming of the roses, where the undergrowth hadcrossed and recrossed withered branches above bare,black soil.

She brought her happiness here, where she had broughther sorrow and her repinings long ago.

A happiness subdued by many memories, chastened bylong anxiety, obscured by many doubts, but still happiness.

There was to be no more of that heart-breaking anxiety.Her boy had been spared to come home to her; and John—­John,who always understood, had declared that, for thepresent, at least, Peter must come first.

The whole beautiful summer lay before her, in whichshe was to be free to devote herself to her woundedhero. She must set herself to charm away thatshadow of discontent—­of disapproval—­thatdarkened Peter’s grey eyes when they restedupon her; a shadow of which she had been only tooconscious even before he went to South Africa.

She made a thousand excuses for him, after tellingherself that he needed none.

Poor boy! he had been brought up in such narrow ways,such an atmosphere of petty distrust and fault-findingand small aims. Even his bold venture into theworld of men had not enabled him to shake off altogetherthe influence of his early training, though it hadchanged him so much for the better; it had not altogethercured Peter of his old ungraciousness, partly inherited,and partly due to example.

But he had returned full of love and tenderness andpenitence, though his softening had been but momentary;and when she had brought him under the changed influenceswhich now dominated her own life, she could not doubtthat Peter’s nature would expand.

He should see that home life need not necessarilybe gloomy; that all innocent pleasures and interestswere to be encouraged, and not repressed. Ifhe wanted to spend the summer at home—­andafter his long absence what could be more natural?—­shewould exert herself to make that home as attractiveas possible. Why should they not entertain?John had said there was plenty of money. Petershould have other young people about him. Sheremembered a scene, long ago, when he had broughta boy of his own age in to lunch without permission.She would have to let Peter understand how welcomeshe should make his friends; he must have many morefriends now. While she was yet chatelaineof Barracombe, it would be delightful to imbue himwith some idea of the duties and pleasures of hospitality.Lady Mary’s eyes sparkled at the thought ofproviding entertainment for many young soldiers, woundedor otherwise. They should have the best of everything.She was rich, and Peter was rich, and there was noharm in making visitors welcome in that great house,and filling the rooms, that had been silent and emptyso long, with the noise and laughter of young people.

She would ask Peter about the horses to-morrow.John had purposely refrained from filling the stableswhich had been so carefully restored and fitted.There were very few horses. Only the cob forthe dog-cart, and a pair for the carriage, so old thatthe coachman declared it was tempting Providence tosit behind them. They were calculated to haveattained their twentieth year, and were driven at aslow jog-trot for a couple of hours every day, exceptSundays, in the barouche. James Coachman informedLady Belstone and Miss Crewys that either steed wasliable to drop down dead at any moment, and that theycould not expect the best of horses to last for ever;but the old ladies would neither shorten nor abandontheir afternoon drive, nor consent to the purchaseof a new pair. They continued to behave as thoughhorses were immortal.

Sir Timothy’s old black mare was turned outto graze, partly from sentiment, and partly becauseshe, too, was unfitted for any practical purposes;and Peter had outgrown his pony before he went away,though he had ridden it to hounds many times, unknownto his father. Lady Mary thought it would bea pleasure to see her boy well mounted and the stablesfilled. John had said that the loss of his armwould certainly not prevent Peter from riding.She found herself constantly referring to John, evenin her plans for Peter’s amusem*nt.

Strong, calm, patient John—­who was preparedto wait; and who would not, as he said, snatch happinessat the expense of other people’s feelings.How wise he had been to agree that, for the present,she must devote herself only to Peter! She andPeter would be all in all to each other as Peter himselfhad suggested, and as she had once dreamed her sonwould be to his mother; though, of course, it was notto be expected that a boy could understand everything,like John.

She must make great allowances; she must be patientof his inherited prejudices; above all, she must makehim happy.

Afterwards, perhaps, when Peter had learned to dowithout her—­as he would learn too surelyin the course of nature—­she would be freeto turn to John, and put her hand in his, and let himlead her whithersoever he would.

Peter saw his guardian off at Brawnton, dutifullystanding at attention on the platform until the trainhad departed, instead of starting home as John suggested.

When he came out of the station he stood still fora moment, contemplating the stout, brown cob and theslim groom, who was waiting anxiously to know whetherSir Peter would take the reins, or whether he wasto have the honour of driving his master home.

“I think I’ll walk back, George,”said Peter, with a nonchalant air. “Takethe cob along quietly, and let her ladyship know directlyyou get in that I’m returning by Hewelscourtwoods, and the ferry.”

“Very good, Sir Peter,” said the youth,zealously.

“It would be only civil to look in on the Hewelsas Sarah is going back to town so soon,” saidPeter to himself. “And it’s rot drivingall those miles on the sunny side of the river, whenit’s barely three miles from here to Hewelscourtand the ferry, and in the shade all the way.I shall be back almost as soon as the cart.”

A little old lady, dressed in shabby black silk, lookedup from the corner of the sofa next the window, whenPeter entered the drawing-room at Hewelscourt, afterthe usual delay, apologies, and barking of dogs whichattends the morning caller at the front door of theaverage country house.

Peter, who had expected to see Mrs. Hewel and Sarah,repented himself for a moment that he had come atall when he beheld this stranger, who regarded himwith a pair of dark eyes that seemed several timestoo large for her small, wrinkled face, and who merelynodded her head in response to his awkward salutation.

“Ah!” said the old lady, rather as thoughshe were talking to herself, “so this is thereturned hero, no doubt. How do you do? Therejoicing over your home-coming kept me awake halfthe night.”

Peter was rather offended at this free-and-easy methodof address. It seemed to him that, since theold lady evidently knew who he was, she might be alittle more respectful in her manner.

“The festivities were all over soon after eleven,”he said stiffly. “But perhaps you are accustomedto early hours?”

“Perhaps I am,” said the old lady; sheseemed more amused than abashed by Peter’s dignityof demeanour. “At any rate, I like my beautysleep to be undisturbed; more especially in the country,where there are so many noises to wake one up fromfour o’clock in the morning onwards.”

“I have always understood,” said Peter,who inherited his father’s respect for platitudes,“that the country was much quieter than thetown. I suppose you live in a town?”

“I suppose I do,” said the old lady.

Peter put up his eyeglass indignantly, to quell thisdisrespectful old woman with a frigid look, modelledupon the expression of his board-ship hero.

The door opened suddenly.

He dropped his eyeglass with a start. But itwas only Mrs. Hewel who entered, and not Sarah, afterall.

Her embonpoint, and consequently her breathlessness,had much increased since Peter saw her last.

“Oh, Peter,” she cried, “this isnice of you to come over and see us so soon.We were wondering if you would. Dear, dear, howthankful your mother must be! I know what I waswith the boys—­and decorated and all—­thoughpoor Tom and Willie got nothing; but, as the paperssaid, it wasn’t always those who deserved itmost—­still, I’m glad you gotsomething, anyway; it’s little enough, I’msure, to make up for—­” Then she turnednervously to the old lady. “Aunt Elizabeth,this is Sir Peter Crewys, who came home last night.”

“I have already made acquaintance with Sir Peter,since you left me to entertain him,” said theold lady, nodding affably.

“Lady Tintern arrived unexpectedly by the afternoontrain yesterday,” explained Mrs. Hewel, in herflustered manner, turning once more to Peter.“She has only been here twice before. Itwas such a surprise to Sarah to find her here whenshe came back.”

Peter grew very red. Who could have supposedthat this shabby old person, whom he had endeavouredto snub, was the great Lady Tintern?

“She didn’t find me,” saidthe old lady. “I was in bed long beforeSarah came back. I presume this young gentlemanescorted her home?”

“I always send a servant across for Sarah whenevershe stays at all late at Barracombe, and always have,”said Mrs. Hewel, in hurried self-defence. “Youmust remember we are old friends; there never wasany formality about her visits to Barracombe.”

“My guardian and I walked down to the ferry,and saw her across the river, of course,” saidPeter, rather sulkily.

“But her maid was with her,” cried Mrs.Hewel.

“Of course,” Peter said again, in tonesthat were none too civil.

After all, who was Lady Tintern that she should callhim to task? And as if there could be any reasonwhy her oldest playmate should not see Sarah homeif he chose.

At the very bottom of Peter’s heart lurked aninborn conviction that his father’s son wasa very much more important personage than any Hewel,or relative of Hewel, could possibly be.

“That was very kind of you and your guardian,”said the old lady, suddenly becoming gracious.“Emily, I will leave you to talk to your oldfriend. I dare say I shall see him again atluncheon?”

“I cannot stay to luncheon. My mother isexpecting me,” said Peter.

He would not express any thanks. What businesshad the presuming old woman to invite him to luncheon?It was not her house, after all.

“Oh, your mother is expecting you,” saidLady Tintern, whose slightly derisive manner of repeatingPeter’s words embarrassed and annoyed the younggentleman exceedingly. “I am glad you aresuch a dutiful son, Sir Peter.”

She gathered together her letters and her black draperies,and tottered off to the door, which Peter, who wassadly negligent of les petit* soins forgotto open for her; nor did he observe the indignantlook she favoured him with in consequence.

Sarah came into the drawing-room at last; fresh asthe morning dew, in her summer muslin and fluttering,embroidered ribbons; with a bunch of forget-me-nots,blue as her eyes, nestling beneath her round, whitechin. Her bright hair was curled round her prettyears and about her fair throat, but Peter did notcompare this coiffure to a fashion plate, though,indeed, it exactly resembled one. Neither didhe cast the severely critical glance upon Sarah’stoilette that he had bestowed upon the soft,grey gown, and the cluster of white moss-rosebudswhich poor Lady Mary had ventured to wear that morning.

“How have you managed to offend Aunt Elizabeth,Peter?” cried Sarah, with her usual frankness.“She is in the worst of humours.”

“Sarah!” said her mother, reprovingly.

“Well, but she is,” said Sarah.“She called him a cub and a bear, and all sortsof things.”

She looked at Peter and laughed, and he laughed back.The cloud of sullenness had lifted from his brow asshe appeared.

Mrs. Hewel overwhelmed him with unnecessary apologies.She could not grasp the fact that her polite conversationwas as dull and unmeaning to the young man as Sarah’sindiscreet nothings were interesting and delightful.

“I’m sure I don’t mind,” saidPeter; and his tone was quite alert and cheerful.“She told me the country kept her awake.If she doesn’t like it, why does she come?”

“She has come to fetch me away,” saidSarah. “And she came unexpectedly, becauseshe wanted to see for herself whether mamma was reallyill, or whether she was only shamming.”

“Sarah!”

“And she has decided she is only shamming,”said Sarah. “Unluckily, mamma happenedto be down in the stables, doctoring Venus. Youremember Venus, her pet spaniel?”

“Of course.”

“Nothing else would have taken me off my sofa,where I ought to be lying at this moment, as you knowvery well, Sarah,” cried Mrs. Hewel, showingan inclination to shed tears.

“To be sure you ought,” said Sarah; “butwhat is the use of telling Aunt Elizabeth that, whenshe saw you with her own eyes racing up and down thestable-yard, with a piece of raw meat in your hand,and Venus galloping after you.”

“The vet said that if she took no exercise shewould die,” said Mrs. Hewel, tearfully, “andneither he nor Jones could get her to move. Noteven Ash, though he has known her all her life.I know it was very bad for me; but what could I do?”

“I wish I had been there,” said Sarah,giggling; “but, however, Aunt Elizabeth describedit all to me so graphically this morning that it isalmost as good as though I had been.”

“She should not have come down like that, withoutgiving us a notion,” said Mrs. Hewel, resentfully.

“If she had only warned us, you could have beenlying on a sofa, with the blinds down, and I couldhave been holding your hand and shaking a medicine-bottle,”said Sarah. “That is how she expected tofind us, she said, from your letters.”

“I am sure I scarcely refer to my weak healthin my letters,” said Mrs. Hewel, plaintively,“and it is natural I should like my only daughterto be with me now and then. Aunt Elizabeth hasnever had a child herself, and cannot understand thefeelings of a mother.”

Sarah and Peter exchanged a fleeting glance.She shrugged her shoulders slightly, and Peter lookedat his boots. They understood each other perfectly.

Freshly to the recollection of both rose the lamentationsof a little red-haired girl, banished from the Edenof her beloved home, and condemned to a cheap Germanschool. Mrs. Hewel, in her palmiest days, hadnever found it necessary to race up and down the stable-yardto amuse Sarah; and when her only daughter developedscarlatina, she had removed herself and her spanielsfrom home for months to escape infection.

“Here is papa,” said Sarah, breaking thesilence. “He was so vexed to be out whenyou arrived yesterday. He heard nothing of ittill he came back.”

Colonel Hewel walked in through the open window, withhis dog at his heels. He was delighted to welcomehis young neighbour home. A short, sturdy man,with red whiskers, plentiful stiff hair, and bright,dark blue eyes. From her father Sarah had inheritedher colouring, her short nose, and her unfailing goodspirits.

“I would have come over to welcome you,”he said, shaking Peter’s hand cordially, “onlywhen I came home there was all the upset of Lady Tintern’sarrival, and half a hundred things to be done to makeher sufficiently comfortable. And then I wouldhave come to fetch Sarah after dinner, only I couldn’tbe sure she mightn’t have started; and if I’dgone down by the road, ten to one she’d havecome up by the path through the woods. So I justsat down and smoked my pipe, and waited for her tocome back. You’ll stay to lunch, eh, Peter?”

“I must get back to my mother, sir,” saidPeter. His respect for Sarah’s father,who had once commanded a cavalry regiment, had increaseda thousand-fold since he last saw Colonel Hewel.“But won’t you—­I mean she’dbe very glad—­I wish you’d come overand dine to-night, all of you—­as you couldnot come yesterday evening?”

Thus Peter delivered his first invitation, blushingwith eagerness.

“I’m afraid we couldn’t leave LadyTintern—­or persuade her to come with us,”said the colonel, shaking his head. Then he brightenedup. “But as soon as she and Sally havetoddled back to town I see no reason why we shouldn’tcome, eh, Emily?” he said, turning to his wife.

Peter looked rather blank, and a laugh trembled onSarah’s pretty lips.

“You know I’m not strong enough to dineout, Tom,” said his wife, peevishly. “Ican’t drive so far, and I’m terrified ofthe ferry at night, with those slippery banks.”

“Well, well, there’s plenty of time beforeus. Later on you may get better; and I don’tsuppose you’ll be running away again in a hurry,eh, Peter?” said the colonel. “I’mtold you made a capital speech yesterday about stickingto your home, and living on your land, as your father,poor fellow, did before you.”

“I wish Sarah felt as you do, Peter,”said Mrs. Hewel; “but, of course, she has growntoo grand for us, who live contentedly in the countryall the year round. Her home is nothing to hernow, it seems; and the only thing she thinks of isrushing back to London again as fast as she can.”

Sarah, contrary to her wont, received this attackin silence; but she bestowed a fond squeeze on herfather’s arm, and cast an appealing glance atPeter, which caused the hero’s heart to leapin his bosom.

“Of course I mean to live at Barracombe,”said Peter, polishing his eyeglass with reckless energy.“But I said nothing to the people about livingthere all the year round. On the contrary, I thinkit more probable that I shall—­run up totown myself, occasionally—­just for theseason.”

CHAPTER XV

On a perfect summer afternoon in mid-July, Lady Marysat in the terrace garden at Barracombe, before theopen windows of the silent house, in the shade ofthe great ilex; sometimes glancing at the book sheheld, and sometimes watching the haymakers in the valley,whose voices and laughter reached her faintly acrossthe distance.

Some boys were playing cricket in a field below.She noted idly that the sound of the ball on the battravelled but slowly upward, and reached her afterthe striker had begun to run. The effect wascurious, but it was not new to her, though she listenedand counted with idle interest.

The old sisters had departed for their daily drive,which she daily declined to share, having no lovefor the high-road, and much for the peace which theirabsence brought her.

It was an afternoon which made mere existence a delightamid such surroundings.

Long shadows were falling across the bend of the river,below the wooded hill which faced the south-west;whilst the cob-built, whitewashed cottages, and thebrown, square-towered church lay full in sunshinestill. The red cattle stood knee-deep in the shallows,and an old boat was moored high and dry upon the slopingred banks.

The air was sweet with a thousand mingled scents ofsummer flowers: carnations, stocks, roses, andjasmine. The creamy clusters of Perpetual Felicityrioted over the corner turret of the terrace, wherea crumbling stair led to the top of a small, half-ruinedobservatory, which tradition called the look-out tower.

Flights of steps led downwards from the garden, wherethe bedded-out plants blazed in all their glory ofordered colour, to the walks on the lower levels.Here were long herbaceous borders, backed by the mightysloping walls of old red sandstone, which, like anancient fortification, supported the terrace above.

The blue larkspur flourished beside scarlet gladioli,feather-headed spirea, and hardy fuchsia. Therewere no straight lines, nor any order of planting.The Madonna lilies stood in groups, lifting up on thin,ragged stems their pure and spotless clusters, andoverpowering with their heavy scent the fainter fragranceof the mignonette. Tall, green hollyhocks toweredhigher yet, holding the secret of their loveliness,until these should wither; when they too would burstinto blossom, and forestall the round-budded dahlia.

In the silence, many usually unheeded sounds madethemselves very plainly heard.

The tapping of the great magnolia-leaves upon thewindows of the south front; the rustling of the ilex;the ceaseless murmur of the river; the near twitteringor distant song of innumerable birds; the steady humof the saw-mill below; the call of the poultry-womanat the home-farm, and the shrieking response of afeathered horde flying and fighting for their food—­soundsall so familiar as to pass unnoticed, save in theabsence of companionship.

As Lady Mary mused alone, she could not but recallother summer afternoons, when she had not felt lesslonely because her husband’s voice might atany moment break the silence, and summon her to hisside. Days when Peter had been absent at school,instead of, as now, at play; and when the old ladieshad also been absent, taking their regular and dailydrive in the big barouche.

Then she had prized and coveted the solitude of asummer afternoon on the lawn, and had stolen awayto read and dream undisturbed in the shadow of theilex.

It was now, when no vexatious restraint was exercisedover her—­when there was no one to reproveher for dreaming, or to criticize or forbid her chosenbook—­that solitude had become distastefulto her. She was restless and dissatisfied, andthe misty sunlit landscape had lost its charm, andher book its power of enchaining her attention.

She had tasted the joy of real companionship; thecharm of real sympathy; of the fearless exchange ofideas with one whose outlook upon life was as broadand charitable as Sir Timothy’s had been narrowand prejudiced.

She had scarcely dared to acknowledge to herself howdear John Crewys had become to her, even though sheknew that she rested thankfully upon the certaintyof his love; that she trusted him in all things; thatshe was in utter sympathy with all his thoughts andwords and ways.

Yet she had wished him to go, that she might be freeto devote herself to her boy—­to be verysure that she was not a light and careless mother,ready to abandon her son at the first call of a stranger.

And John Crewys had understood as another might nothave understood. His clear head and great hearthad divined her feelings, though perhaps he wouldnever quite know how passionately grateful she wasbecause he had divined them; because he had in no wayfallen short of the man he had seemed to be.

She had sacrificed John to Peter; and John, who hadshown so much wisdom and delicacy in leaving her alonewith her son, was avenged; for only his absence couldhave made clear to her how he had grown into the heartshe had guarded so jealously for Peter’s sake.

She knew now that Peter’s companionship madeher more lonely than utter solitude.

The joie de vivre, which had distinguishedher early days, and was inherent in her nature, hadbeen quenched, to all appearance, many years since;but the spark had never died, and John had fanned itinto brightness once more.

His strong hand had swept away the cobwebs that hadbeen spun across her life; and the drooping soul hadrevived in the sunshine of his love, his comradeship,his warm approval.

Timidly, she had learnt to live, to laugh, to lookabout her, and dare utter her own thoughts and opinions,instead of falsely echoing those she did not share.Lady Mary had recovered her individuality; the sereneconsciousness of a power within herself to live upto the ideal her lover had conceived of her.

But now, in his absence, that confidence had beenrudely shaken. She had come to perceive thatshe, who charmed others so easily, could not charmher sullen son. It was part of the penalty shepaid for her quick-wittedness, that she could realizeherself as Peter saw her, though she was unable topresent herself before him in a more favourable light.

“I must be myself—­or nobody,”she thought despairingly. But Peter wanted herto be once more the meek, plainly dressed, low-spirited,silent being whom Sir Timothy had created; and whowas not in the least like the original laughing, loving,joyous Mary Setoun.

It did not occur to her, in her sorrowful humility,that possibly her qualities stood on a higher levelthan Peter’s powers of appreciation. Yetit is certain that people can only admire intelligentlywhat is good within their comprehension; and theirhighest flights of imagination may sometimes scarcelytouch mediocrity.

The noblest ideals, the fairest dreams, the subtlestreasoning, the finest ethics, contained in the writingsof the mighty dead, meant nothing at all to Sir Timothy.His widow knew that she had never heard him utterone high or noble or selfless thought. But with,perhaps, pardonable egotism, she had taken it forgranted that Peter must be different. Whateverhis outward humours, he was her son; rathera part of herself, in her loving fancy, than a separateindividual.

The moment of awakening had been long in coming toLady Mary; the moment when a mother has to find outthat her personality is not necessarily reproducedin her child; that the being who was once the unconsciousconsoler of her griefs and troubles may develop a natureperfectly antagonistic to her own.

She had kept her eyes shut with all her might fora long time, but necessity was forcing them open.

Perhaps her association with John Crewys made it easierto see Peter as he was, and not as she had wishedhim to be.

And yet, she thought miserably to herself, he hadcertainly tried hard to be affectionate and kind toher—­and probably it did not occur to him,as it did to his mother, how pathetic it was that heshould have to try.

Peter did not think much about it.

Sometimes, during his short stay at Barracombe, hehad walked through a game of croquet with his mother—­itwas good practice for his left hand—­orhe listened disapprovingly to something she inadvertently(forgetting he was not John) read aloud for his sympathyor admiration; or he took a short stroll with her;or bestowed his company upon her in some other dutifulfashion. But these filial attentions over, ifhe yawned with relief—­why, he never didso in her presence, and would have been unable tounderstand that Lady Mary saw him yawning, in hermind’s eye, as plainly as though he had indulgedthis bad habit under her very nose. He bestoweda portion of his time on his aunts in much the samespirit, taking less trouble to be affectionate, becausethey were less exacting, as he would have put it tohimself, than she was.

The scheme of renting a house in London had duly beenlaid before him, and rejected most decisively by theyoung gentleman. His father had never taken ahouse in town, and he could see no necessity for it.His aunts were lost in admiration for their nephew’sfirmness. Peter had inherited somewhat of hisfather’s dictatorial manner, and their flatterydid not tend to soften it. When his aged relativesmispronounced the magic word kopje, or betrayedtheir belief that a donga was an inaccessiblemountain—­he brought the big guns of hisheavy satire to bear on the little target of theirignorance without remorse. He mistook a loudvoice, and a habit of laying down the law, for manlydecision, and the gift of leadership; and imaginedthat in talking down his mother’s gentle protestshe had convinced her of his superior wisdom.

When he had made it sufficiently clear, however, thathe did not wish Lady Mary to accompany him to town,young Sir Peter made haste to depart thither himself,on the very reasonable plea that he required a newoutfit of clothes.

Was it possible that his departure brought a dreadfulrelief to the mother who had prayed day and night,for eight-and-twenty months, that her son might returnto her?

She tried and tried, on her knees in her own room,to realize what her feelings would have been if Peterhad been killed in South Africa. She tried torecall the first ecstasy of joy at his home-coming.She remembered, as she might have remembered a dream,the hours of agony she had passed, looking out overthese very blue hills, and dumbly beseeching God tospare her boy—­her only son—­outof all the mothers’ sons who were laying downtheir lives for England.

A terrible thought assailed her now and then, likean ugly spectre that would not be laid—­thatif Peter had died of his wound—­if he hadfallen as so many of his comrades had fallen, in thewar—­he would have been a hero for all time;a glorious memory, safely enshrined and enthronedabove all these miserable petty doubts and disappointments.She cast the thought from her in horror and piteousgrief, and reiterated always her passionate gratitudefor his preservation. But, nevertheless, theliving, breathing Peter was a daily and hourly disappointmentto the mother who loved him. His ways were nother ways, nor his thoughts her thoughts; and oftenshe felt that she could have found more to say toa complete stranger, and that a stranger would haveunderstood her better.

The old ladies, returning from their drive, generallytook a little turn upon the terrace. This constitutedhalf their daily exercise, since their morning walkconsisted of a stroll round the kitchen garden.

“It prevents cramp after sitting so long,”one would say to the other.

“And it is only right to show the gardener thatwe take an interest,” the other would reply.

The gardener translated the interest they took intoa habit of fault-finding, which nearly drove him mad.

“It du spile the vine weather vor I,”he would frequently grumble to his greatest crony,James Coachman, who, for his part, bitterly resentedthe abnormal length of the daily drives. “Zureas vate, when I zits down tu my tea, cumes a messagefrom one are t’other on ’em, an’oop I goes. ‘Yu bain’t been lukin’round zo careful as ’ee shude; there be a bito’ magnolia as want nailding oop, my gude man.’’Oh, be there, mum?’ zays I. ‘Yiss,there be; an’ thart I’d carl yure attentiontu it,’ zess she, are zum zuch. ‘Thanky,mum, I’m zure,’ zezz I.”

“I knows how her goes on,” groaned JamesCoachman.

“Mother toime ’tis zummat else,”said the aggrieved gardener. “’Thic ’eregeranum’s broke, Willum; but ef yu tuke it vorcuttings, zo vast’s iver yu cude, ’twon’ttake no yarm, Willum. Yu zee as how us du takea turble interest.’ Ah! ‘tis arl Ican du tu putt oop wi’ ’un; carling aman from’s tea, tu tark zuch vamous vule’stark.”

Lady Mary was not much less weary than the gardenerand coachman of the old sisters’ habits of criticism.But only the shadow of their former power of vexingher remained, now that they could no longer appealto Sir Timothy to join them in reproving his wife.She was no more to be teased or exasperated into alternatesubmission and rebellion.

Their cousin John, the administrator of Barracombe,had chosen from the first to place her opinions andwishes above all their protests or advice. Theysaid to each other that John, before he grew tiredof her and went away, had spoilt poor dear Mary completely;but their hopes were centred on Peter, who was a trueCrewys, and who would soon be his own master, andthe master of Barracombe; when he would, doubtless,revert to his father’s old ways.

They chose to blame his mother for his sudden departureto London, and remarked that the changes in his homehad so wrought upon the poor fellow, that he couldnot bear to look at them until he had the power ofputting them right again.

A deeply resented innovation was the appearance ofthe tea-table on the lawn before the windows, in theshade of the ilex-grove, which sheltered the westernend of the terrace from the low rays of the sun.

During the previous summer, on their return from adrive, they had found their cousin John in his whiteflannels, and Lady Mary in her black gown, serenelyenjoying this refreshment out-of-doors; and the poorold ladies had hardly known how to express their surpriseand annoyance.

In vain did their sister-in-law explain that she haddesired a second tea to be served in the hall, intheir usual corner by the log fireplace.

It had never been the custom in the family. Whatwould Ash say? What would he think? Howcould so much extra trouble be given to the servants?

“The servants have next to nothing to do,”Lady Mary had said; and young John had actually laughed,and explained that he had had a conversation withAsh which had almost petrified that tyrant of thehousehold.

Either Ash would behave himself properly, and carryout orders without grumbling, or he would be superseded.Ash superseded!

This John had said with quite unruffled good humour,and with a smile on his face, as though such an upheavalof domestic politics were the simplest thing in theworld. Though for years the insolence and theidleness of Ash had been favourite grievances withLady Belstone and Miss Crewys, they were speechlesslyindignant with young John.

Habit had partially inured, though it could neverreconcile them, to the appearance of that little rustictable and white cloth in Lady Mary’s favouritecorner of the terrace; and though they would ratherhave gone without their tea altogether than partakeof it there, they could behold her pouring it outfor herself with comparative equanimity.

“I trust you are rested, dear Mary, after yourterrible long climb in the woods this morning?”

“It has been very restful sitting here.I hope you had a pleasant drive, Isabella?”“No; it was too hot to be pleasant. We passedthe rectory, and there was that idle doctor lollingin the canon’s verandah—­keeping thepoor man from his haymaking. Has the second postcome in? Any news of dear Peter?”

“None at all. You know he is not much ofa correspondent, and his last letter said he wouldbe back in a few days.”

“For my part,” said Lady Belstone, “Ithink Peter will come home the day he attains hismajority, and not a moment before.”

“He is hardly likely to stay in London throughAugust and September,” said Lady Mary, in ratherdispleased tones.

“Perhaps not in London; but there are otherplaces besides London,” said Miss Crewys, significantly.“We met Mrs. Hewel driving. She, poorthing, does not expect to see Sarah before Christmas,if then, from what she told us.”

“She should not have let Lady Tintern adoptSarah if she is to be for ever regretting it.It was her own doing,” said Lady Mary.

“That is just what I told her,” said LadyBelstone, triumphantly. “Though how shecan be regretting such a daughter I cannot conjecture.”

“Sarah is a saucy creature,” said MissCrewys. “The last time I saw her she madeone of her senseless jokes at me.”

“She has no tact,” said Lady Belstone,shaking her head; “for when Peter saw you wereannoyed, and tried to pass it off by telling her theCrewys family had no sense of humour, instead of saying,’What nonsense!’ she said, ‘Whata pity!’”

“Her mother was full of a letter from Lady Tinternabout some grand lord or other, who wanted to marrySarah. I did my best to make her understand howvery unlikely it was that any man, noble or otherwise,would care to marry a girl with carroty hair.”

“I doubt if you succeeded in convincing her,Georgina, though you spoke pretty plain, and I amvery far from blaming you for it. But she isate up with pride, poor thing, because Sarah gets noticedby Lady Tintern’s friends, who would naturallywish to gratify her by flattering her niece.”

“I am afraid the girl is setting her cap atPeter,” said Miss Crewys; “but I tookcare to let her mother know, casually, what our familywould think of such a marriage for him.”

“Peter is a boy,” said Lady Mary, quickly;“and Sarah, for all practical purposes, is tenyears older than he. She is only amusing herself.Lady Tintern is much more ambitious for her than Iam for Peter.”

“How you talk, Mary!” said Miss Crewys,indignantly. “She is hardly twenty yearsof age, and the most designing monkey that ever lived.And Peter is a fine young man. A boy, indeed!I hope if she succeeds in catching him that you willremember I warned you.”

“I will remember, if anything so fortunate shouldoccur,” said Lady Mary, with a faint smile.“I cannot think of any girl in the world whomI would prefer to Sarah as a daughter.”

“I, for one, should walk out of this house theday that girl entered it as mistress, let Peter saywhat he would to prevent me,” said Lady Belstone,reddening with indignation.

“I wonder where you would go to?” saidLady Mary, with some curiosity. “Of course,”she added, hastily, “there is the Dower House.”

“I am sure it is very generous of you to suggestthe Dower House, dear Mary,” said Miss Crewys,softening, “since our poor brother, in his unaccountablewill, left it entirely to you, and made no mentionof his elder sisters; though we do not complain.”

“It is in accordance with custom that the widowshould have the Dower House. A widow’srights should be respected; but I thought our nameswould be mentioned,” said Lady Belstone, dejectedly.

“Of course he knew,” said Lady Mary, ina low voice, “that Peter’s house wouldbe always open to us all, as my boy said himself.”

“Dear boy! he has said it to us too,”said the sisters, in a breath.

“I don’t say that, in my opinion,”said Lady Mary, “it would not be wiser to leavea young married couple to themselves; I have alwaysthought so. But Peter would not hear of your turningout of your old home; you know that very well.”

“Peter would not; but nothing would induce meto live under the same roof as that red-haired minx,”said Lady Belstone, firmly. “And besides,as you say, my dear Mary, you could not very well liveby yourself at the Dower House.”

“Since Mary has been so kind as to mention it,there would be many advantages in our accompanyingher there, in case Sarah should succeed in her artfulaims,” said Miss Crewys. “It wouldbe near Peter, and yet not too near, and wecould keep an eye on her.”

“If she does not succeed, somebody else will,”said Lady Belstone, sensibly; “and, at least,we know her faults, and can put Peter on his guardagainst them.”

A host of petty and wretched recollections pouredinto Lady Mary’s mind as she listened to thesewords.

Poor Timothy; poor little hunted, scolded, despairingbride; poor married life—­of futile reproachesand foolish quarrelling.

How many small miseries she owed to those ferret searchingeyes, and those subtly poisonous tongues! Butsuch miseries lurked in the dull shadows of the past.Standing now in the bright sunshine of the present,she forgave the sisters with all her heart, and thoughtcompassionately of their great age, their increasinginfirmities, their feeble hold on life.

Not to them did she owe real sorrow, after all; fornothing that does not touch the heart can reach thefountain of grief.

Peter’s hand—­the hand she loved bestin the world—­had set the waters of sorrowflowing not once, but many times; but she had becomeaware lately of a stronger power than Peter’sguarding the spring.

She looked from one sister to the other.

Despite the narrowness of brow, and sharpness of eyeand feature, they were both venerable of aspect, asthey tottered up and down the terrace where they hadplayed in their childhood and sauntered through youthand middle age to these latter days, when they leantupon silver-headed sticks, and wore dignified silkattire and respectable poke-bonnets.

“Don’t you think it would be better,”said Lady Mary, slowly, “if you left Peter tofind out his wife’s faults for himself; whethershe be Sarah—­or another?”

CHAPTER XVI

Torrents of falling rain obscured the valley of theYoule. The grey clouds floated below the ridgesof the hills, and wreathed the tree-tops. Againstthe dim purple of the distance, the October rosesheld up melancholy, rain-washed heads; and sudden gustsof wind sent little armies of dead, brown leaves racingover the stone pavement of the terrace.

Lady Mary leant her forehead against the window, andgazed out upon the autumn landscape; and John Crewyswatched her with feelings not altogether devoid ofself-reproach.

Perhaps he had carried his prudent consideration toofar.

His reverence for his beautiful lady—­whor*igned in John’s inmost thoughts as both saintand queen—­had caused him to determine thatshe must come to him, when she did come, without ashadow of self-reproach to sully the joy of her surrender,the fulness, of her bliss, in the perfect sympathyand devotion which awaited her.

But John Crewys—­though passionately desiringher companionship, and impatient of all barriers,real or imaginary, which divided her from him—­yetlived a life very full of work and interest and pleasureon his own account. He was only conscious ofhis loneliness at times; and when he was as busy ashe had been during the early half of this summer,he was hardly conscious of it at all.

He had not fully realized the effect that this timeof waiting and uncertainty might have upon her, inthe solitude to which he had left her, and which hehad at first supposed would be altogether occupiedby Peter. Her letters—­infrequent ashe, in his self-denial, had suggested—­werecharacterized by a delicate reserve and a tacit refusalto take anything for granted in their relations toeach other, which half charmed and half tantalizedJohn; but scarcely enlightened him regarding the suspenseand sadness which at this time she was called uponto bear.

When he came to Barracombe, he knew that she had sufferedgreatly during these months of his absence, and reproachedhimself angrily for blindness and selfishness.

He had spent the first weeks of his long vacationin Switzerland, in order to bring the date of hisvisit to the Youle Valley as near as possible to thedate of Peter’s coming of age; but, also, hehad been very much overworked, and felt an absolutewant of rest and change before entering upon the strugglewhich he supposed might await him, and for which hewould probably need all the good humour and good sensehe possessed. So far as he was personally concerned,there was no doubt that his proceedings had been dictatedby wisdom and judgment.

The fatigue and irritability, consequent upon toomuch mental labour, and too little fresh air and exercise,had vanished. John was in good health and goodspirits, clear of brain and eye, and vigorous of person,when he arrived at Barracombe; in the mild, wet, mistyweather which heralded the approach of a typical Devonshireautumn.

But when he looked at Lady Mary, he knew that he wouldhave been better able to dispense with that holidayinterval than she was to have endured it.

She had always been considered marvellously young-lookingfor her age. The quiet country life she had ledhad bestowed that advantage upon her; and her beauty,fair as she was, had always been less dependent oncolouring than upon the exquisite delicacy of her featuresand general contour. But now a heaviness beneaththe blue eyes,—­a little fading of her brightness—­alittle droop of the beautifully shaped mouth,—­almostbetrayed her seven and thirty years; and the soft,abundant, brown hair was threaded quite perceptiblywith silver. Her sweet face smiled upon him;but the smile was no longer, he thought, joyous—­butpathetic, as of one who reproaches herself wonderinglyfor light-heartedness.

John looked at her in silence, but the words he utteredin his heart were, “I will never leave you anymore.”

Perhaps his face said everything that he did not say,for Lady Mary had turned from him with a little sob,and leant her forehead on her hands, looking out atthe rain which swept the valley. She felt, asshe had always felt in John’s presence, thathere was her champion and her protector and her slave,in one; returned to restore her failing courage andher lost self-confidence.

“So you saw something of Peter in London?”she said tremulously, breaking the silence which hadfallen between them after their first greeting.“Please tell me. You know I have seen almostnothing of him since he came home.”

“So I gather,” said John. “Yes,I saw something—­not very much—­ofMaster Peter in London. You see I am not muchof a society man;” and he laughed.

“Was Peter a society man?” said his mother,laughing also, but rather sadly.

“He went out a good deal, and was to be metwith in most places,” John answered.

“I read his name in lists of dances given bypeople I did not know he had ever heard of. ButI did not like to ask him how he managed to get invited.He rather dislikes being questioned,” said LadyMary, describing Peter’s prejudices as mildlyas possible.

“I fancy Miss Sarah could tell you,” saidJohn, with twinkling eyes.

“I did not know—­just a girl—­couldget a stranger, a boy like Peter, invited everywhere,”said Lady Mary, innocently.

John laughed. “Peter is a very eligibleboy,” he said, “and Sarah is not ‘justa girl,’ but a very clever young woman indeed;and Lady Tintern is a ball-giver. But if he hadbeen the most ordinary of youths, a bachelor’sfoothold on the dance-lists is the easiest thing inthe world to obtain. It means nothing in itself.”

“I think it meant a good deal to Peter,”said his mother, with a sigh. “If onlyI could think Sarah were in earnest.”

“I don’t see why not,” said John.

Then he came and took Lady Mary’s hand, andled her to a seat next the fire.

“Come and sit down comfortably,” he said,“and let us talk everything over. It looksvery miserable out-of-doors, and nothing could be moredelightful than this room, and nobody to disturb us.I want the real history of the last few months.Do you know your letters told me almost nothing?”

The room was certainly delightful, and not the lessso for the Chill rain without, which beat againstthe windows, and enhanced the bright aspect of thescene within.

A little fire burned cheerfully in the polished grate,and cast its glow upon the burnished fender, and thesilver ornaments and trifles on a rosewood table beyond.The furniture was bright with old-fashioned glossychintz; the rose-tinted walls were hung with finewater-colour drawings; the windows with rose-silk curtains.

The hardy outdoor flowers were banished to the oakenhall. Lady Mary’s sense of the fitnessof things permitted the silver cups and Venetian glassesof this dainty apartment to be filled only with waxenhothouse blooms and maidenhair fern.

She could not but be conscious of the restfulnessof her surroundings, and of John’s calm, protectingpresence, as he placed her tenderly in the cornerof the fireside couch, and took his place beside her.

“I don’t think the last months have hadany history at all,” she said dreamily.“I have missed you, John. But that—­youknow already. I—­I have been very lonely—­since—­sincePeter came home. I think it was Sarah who persuadedhim to go away again so soon. I believe she laughedat his clothes.”

“I suppose they were a little out ofdate, and he must surely have outgrown them, besides,”said John, smiling.

“I suppose so; anyway, I think it must havebeen that which put it into his head to go to Londonand buy more. It was a little awkward for thepoor boy, because he had just been scolding mefor wishing to go to London. But he said he wouldonly be a few days.”

“And he stayed to the end of the season?”

“Yes. Of course the aunts put it down toSarah. I dare say it was her doing.I don’t know why she should wish to rob me ofmy boy just for—­amusem*nt,” saidLady Mary, rather resentfully. “But I havenot understood Sarah lately; she has seemed so hardand flippant. You are laughing, John? Idare say I am jealous and inconsistent. You arequite right. One moment I want to think Sarahin earnest—­and willing to marry my boy;and the next I remember that I began to hate his wifethe very day he was born.”

“It appears to be the nature of mothers,”said John, indulgently. “But you will allowme to hope for Peter’s happiness, andquite incidentally, of course, for our own?”

She smiled. “Seriously, John, I wish youwould tell me how he got on in London.”

“He dined with me once or twice, as you know,”said John, “and was very friendly. I thinkhe was relieved that I made no suggestion of tutorsor universities, and that I took his eyeglass for granted.In short, that I treated him as I should treat anyother young man of my acquaintance; whereas he hadgreatly feared I might presume upon my guardianshipto give him good advice. But I did not, becausehe is too young to want advice just now, and prefers,like most of us, to buy his own experience.”

“I hope he was really nice to you. Youwon’t hide anything? You’ll tellme exactly?”

“I am hiding nothing. The lad is a goodlad at bottom, and a manly one into the bargain,”said John. “His defects are of the kindwhich get up, so to speak, and hit you in the eye;and are, consequently, not of a kind to escape observation.What is obviously wrong is easiest cured. Hehas yet to learn that ‘manners maketh man,’but he was learning it as fast as possible. Themistakes of youth are rather pathetic than annoying.”

“Sometimes,” said Lady Mary.

“He fell, very naturally, into most of the conventionalerrors which beset the inexperienced Londoner,”said John, smiling slightly at the recollection.“He talked in a familiar manner of persons whosenames were unknown to him the day before yesterday;and told well-known anecdotes about well-known peoplewhom he hadn’t had time to meet, as though theyhad only just happened. The kind of stories outsiderstell to new-comers. And he professed to be boredat every party he attended. I won’t saythat the habitue is always too well bred, ortoo grateful to his entertainers, to do anything ofthe kind; but he is certainly too wise or too cautious.”

“Perhaps he was bored?” said Lady Mary,wistfully. “Knowing nobody, poor boy.”

“The first time I met him on neutral groundwas at a dance,” said John. “He lookedvery tall and nervous and lonely, and, of course, hewas not dancing; but, nevertheless, he was the heroof the evening, or so Miss Sarah gave me to understand.But you can imagine it for yourself. The warjust over, and a young fellow who has lost so muchin it; the gallant nephew of the gallant Ferries; besideshis own romantic name, and his eligibility. Itook him off to the National Gallery, to make acquaintancewith the portrait of our cavalier ancestor there;and I declare there is a likeness. Miss Sarahhad visited it long ago, it appears. For my part,I am glad to think that these fashionable young womencan still be so enthusiastic about a wounded soldier.Sarah said they were all wild to dance with him, andready to shed tears for his lost arm.”

“And was he much with Sarah?”

John laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “MissSarah is a star with many satellites. She raisedmy hopes, however, by appearing to have a few smilesto spare for Peter.”

“And she must have got him the invitation toTintern Castle,” said Lady Mary. “Thatis why he went up to Scotland.”

“I see.”

“Then she got him another invitation, I suppose,for he went to the next house she stayed at; and toa third place for some yachting.”

“What did Lady Tintern say?”

“That’s just it. Sarah is in LadyTintern’s black books just now. She isfurious with her, Mrs. Hewel tells me, because shehas refused Lord Avonwick.”

“Hum!” said John. “He has fortythousand a year.”

“I don’t think money would tempt Sarahto marry a man she did not love,” said LadyMary, reproachfully. “There was Mr. VanGraaf, the African millionaire. She wouldn’tlook at him, and he offered to settle untold sumsupon her.”

“Did he? What a brute!”

“Why?”

“Never mind. You’ve not seen him.I’m glad he found Sarah wasn’t for sale.But doesn’t all this look as if it were Peter,after all?”

“If only I could think she were in earnest,”Lady Mary said again. “But he is such aboy. She has three times his cleverness in someways, and three times his experience, though she isyounger than he. I suppose women mature muchearlier than men. It galls my pride when sheorders him about, and laughs at him. But he—­hedoesn’t understand.”

“Perhaps,” said John, slowly, “heunderstands better than you think. Each generationhas a freemasonry of its own. I must confess Ihave heard scraps of chatter and chaff in ballroomsand theatres which have filled me with amazement,wondering how it could be possible that such poorstuff should pass muster as conversation, or coquetry,or gallantry, with the youths and maidens of to-day.But when I have observed further, instead of an offendedfair, or a disillusioned swain, behold! two youngheads close together, two young faces sparkling withsmiles and satisfaction. And the older person,who would fatuously join in with a sensible remark,spoils all the enjoyment. The fact is, the secretof real companionship is not quality, but equality.There’s a punning platitude for you.”

“It may be a platitude, but I am beginning todiscover that what are called platitudes by the youngare biting truths to the old,” said Lady Mary.“I’ve felt it a thousand times. Wordscome so easily to my lips when I’m speakingto you, I am so certain you will understand and respond.But with Peter, I sometimes feel as though I were dumbor stupid. Perhaps you’ve been too—­tookind; you’ve understood too quickly. I’vebeen too ready to believe that you’ve found me—­”

“Everything I wanted to find you,” interruptedJohn, tenderly; “and that was something quiteout of the common.”

She smiled and shook her head. “I am readyto believe all the nice things you can say, as fastas you can say them, when I am with you”she said, with a raillery rather mournful than gay.“But when I am with Peter, I seem to realizedreadfully that I’m only a middle-aged womanof average capacity, and with very little knowledgeof the world. He does his best to teach me.That’s funny, isn’t it?”

“It’s very like—­a very youngman,” said John, gently.

“You mustn’t think I’m mocking atmy boy—­like Sarah,” she said vehemently.“Perhaps I am wrong to tell you. Perhapsonly a mother would really understand. But itmakes me a little sad and bewildered. My boy—­mylittle baby, who lay in my arms and learnt everythingfrom me. And now he looks down and lectures mefrom such an immense height of superiority, neverdreaming that I’m laughing in my heart, becauseit’s only little Peter, after all.”

“And he doesn’t lecture Sarah?”

“Oh no; he doesn’t lecture Sarah.She is too young to be lectured with impunity, andtoo wise. Besides, I think since he went away,and saw Sarah flattered and spoilt, and queening itamong the great people who didn’t know him evenby sight, that he has realized that their relativepositions have changed a good deal. You see, littleSarah Hewel, as she used to be, would have been makingquite a great match in marrying Peter. But LadyTintern’s adopted daughter and heiress—­oldTintern left an immense fortune to his wife, didn’the?—­is another matter altogether. Andhow could she settle down to this humdrum life afterall the excitement and gaiety she’s been accustomedto?”

“Women do such things every day. Besides—­”

“Yes?”

“Is Peter still so much enamoured of a humdrumlife?” said John, dryly.

“I have had no opportunity of finding out; butI am sure he will want to settle down quietly whenall this is over—­”

“You mean when he’s no longer in lovewith Sarah?”

“He’s barely one-and-twenty; it can’tlast,” said Lady Mary.

“I don’t know. If she’s somuch cleverer than he, I’m inclined to thinkit may,” said John.

“Oh, of course, if he married her—­itwould last,” said Lady Mary.

“And then?” said John, smiling.

“Perhaps then,” said Lady Mary;and she laid her hand softly in the strong hand outstretchedto receive it.

CHAPTER XVII

There was a tap at the door of Lady Mary’s bedroom,and Peter’s voice sounded without.

“Mother, could I speak to you for a moment?”

“Come in,” said Lady Mary’s softvoice; and Peter entered and closed the door, andcrossed to the oriel window, where she was sittingat her writing-table, before a pile of notes and accountbooks.

Long ago, in Peter’s childhood, she had learnedto make this bedroom her refuge, where she could reador write or dream, in silence; away from the two oldladies, who seemed to pervade all the living-roomsat Barracombe. Peter had been accustomed allhis life to seek his mother here.

She had chosen the room at her marriage, and had hadan old-fashioned paper of bunched rosebuds put upthere. It was very long and low, and looked eastwardinto the fountain garden, and over the tree-tops faraway to the open country.

The sisters had thought one of the handsome modernrooms of the south front would be more suitable forthe bride, but Lady Mary had her way. She preferredthe older part of the house, and liked the steps downinto her room, the uneven floor, the low ceiling, thequaint window-seats, and the powdering closet whereshe hung her dresses.

The great oriel window formed almost a sitting-roomapart. Here was her writing-table, whereon stoodnow a green jar of scented arums and trailing whitefuchsias.

A bunch of sweet peas in a corner of the window-seatperfumed the whole room, already fragrant with potpourriand lavender.

A low bookcase was filled with her favourite volumes;one shelf with the story-books of her childhood, fromwhich she had long ago read aloud to Peter, on rainydays when he had exhausted all other kinds of amusem*nt;for he had never touched a book if he could help it,therein resembling his father.

In the corner next the window stood the cot wherePeter had slept often as a little boy, and which hadbeen playfully designated the hospital, because hismother had always carried him thither when he wasill. Then she had taken him jealously from thecare of his attendant, and had nursed and guardedhim herself day and night, until even convalescencewas a thing of the past. She had never sufferedthat little cot to be moved; the white coverlet hadbeen made and embroidered by her own hands. Agaudy oleograph of a soldier on horseback—­whichlittle Peter had been fond of, and which had beenhung up to amuse him during one of those childish illnesses—­remainedin its place. How often had she looked at it throughher tears when Peter was far away! Beside thecot stood a table with a shabby book of devotions,marked by a ribbon from which the colour had long sincefaded. The book had belonged to Lady Mary’sfather, young Robbie Setoun, who had become Lord Ferriesbut one short month before he met with a soldier’sdeath. His daughter said her prayers at this littletable, and had carried thither her agony and petitionsfor her boy in his peril, during the many, many monthsof the South African War.

The morning was brilliant and sunny, and the uppercasem*nts stood open, to let in the fresh autumn air,and the song of the robin balancing on a swaying twigof the ivy climbing the old walls. White cloudswere blowing brightly across a clear, blue sky.

Lady Mary stretched out her hand and pulled a cord,which drew a rosy curtain half across the window,and shaded the corner where she was sitting.She looked anxiously and tenderly into Peter’sface; her quick instinct gathered that something hadshaken him from his ordinary mood of criticism orindifference.

“Are you come to have a little talk with me,my darling?” she said.

She was afraid to offer the caress she longed to bestow.She moved from her stiff elbow-chair to the soft cushionsin her favourite corner of the window-seat, and heldout a timid hand. Peter clasped it in his own,threw himself on a stool at her feet, and rested hisforehead against her knee.

“I have something to tell you, mother, and Iam afraid that, when I have told you, you will bedisappointed in me; that you will think me inconsistent.”

Her heart beat faster. “Which of us isconsistent in this world, my darling? We allchange with circ*mstances. We are often obligedto change, even against our wills. Tell me, Peter;I shall understand.”

“There’s not really anything to tell,”said Peter, nervously contradicting himself, “becausenothing is exactly settled yet. But I think somethingmight be—­before very long, if you wouldhelp me to smooth away some of the principal difficulties.”

“Yes, yes,” said Lady Mary, venturingto stroke the closely cropped black head resting againsther lap.

“You know—­Sarah—­has beenteaching me the new kind of croquet, at Hewelscourt,since we came back from Scotland?” he said.“I don’t get on so badly, considering.”

“My poor boy!”

“Oh, I was always rather inclined to be left-handed;it comes in usefully now,” said Peter, who generallyhurried over any reference to his misfortune.“Well, this morning, whilst we were playing,I asked Sarah, for the third time, to—­tomarry me. The third’s the lucky time, isn’tit?” he said, with a tremulous laugh, “and—­and—­”

“She said yes!” cried Lady Mary, claspingher hands.

“She didn’t go so far as that,”said Peter, rather reproachfully. His voice shookslightly. “But she didn’t say no.It’s the first time she hasn’t said no.”

“What did she say?” said Lady Mary.

She tried to keep her feelings of indignation andoffence against Sarah out of her voice. Afterall, who was Sarah that she should presume to refusePeter? Or for the matter of that, to accept him?Either course seems equally unpardonable at times tomotherly jealousy, and Lady Mary was half vexed andhalf amused to find herself not exempt from this weakness.

“Impudent little red-headed thing!” shesaid to herself, though she loved Sarah dearly, andadmired her red hair with all her heart.

“She told me a few of the reasons why she—­shedidn’t want to marry me,” said Peter.

Lady Mary’s dismay was rather too apparent.“Surely that doesn’t sound very hopeful.”

Peter moved impatiently. “Oh, mother, itis always so difficult to make you understand.”

“Is it, indeed?” she said, with a faint,pained smile. “I do my best, my darling.”

“Never mind; I suppose women are always ratherslow of comprehension,” said the young lordof creation—­“that is, except Sarah.She always understands. God bless her!”

“God bless her, indeed!” said Lady Mary,gently, and the tears started to her blue eyes, “ifshe is going to marry my boy.”

Peter repented his crossness. “Forgiveme, mother. I know you mean to be kind,”he said. “You will help me, won’tyou?”

“With all my heart,” she said, anxiously;“only tell me how.”

“You see, I can’t help feeling,”said Peter, bashfully, “that she wouldn’thave told me why she couldn’t marry me,if she hadn’t thought she might bring herselfto do it in the end, if I got over the difficultiesshe mentioned. I’ve been—­hopeful,ever since she refused that ass of an Avonwick, inspite of Lady Tintern. It wants some courageto defy Lady Tintern, I can tell you, though she’ssuch a little object to look at. By George!I’d almost rather walk up to a loaded gun thanface that woman’s tongue. Of course, evenif my share of the difficulties were removed,there’d still be Lady Tintern against us.But if Sarah can defy Lady Tintern in one thing, shemight in another. She’s afraid of nobody.”

“Sarah certainly does not lack courage,”said Lady Mary, smiling.

“I never saw anybody like her,” said Peter,whose love possessed him, mind, body, and soul.“Why, I’ve heard her keep a whole roomfulof people laughing, and every one of them as dullas ditch-water till she came in. And to see herhold her own against men at games—­she’smore strength in one of her pretty, white wrists,”said Peter, looking with an air of disparagement athis mother’s slender, delicate hand, “thanyou have in your whole body, I do believe.”

“She is splendidly strong,” said LadyMary; “the very personification of youth andhealth.” She sighed softly.

“And beauty,” said Peter, excitedly.“Don’t leave that out. And a goodsort, through and through, as even you mustallow, mother.”

He spoke as though he suspected her of begrudginghis praise of Sarah, and she made haste to reply:

“Indeed, she is a good sort, dear little Sarah.”

“She is very fond of you,” Peter said,in a choking voice. It seemed to him, in hisinfatuation, so touching that Sarah should be fondof any one. “She was dreadfully afraidof hurting your feelings; but yet, as she said, shewas bound to be frank with me.”

“Oh, Peter, do tell me what you mean. Youare keeping me on thorns,” said Lady Mary.

She grew red and white by turns. Was John’shappiness in sight already, as well as Peter’s?

“It’s—­it’s most awfullyhard to tell you,” said Peter.

He rose, and leant his elbow against the stone mullionnearest her, looking down anxiously upon her as hespoke.

“After all I said to you when we first camehome, it’s awfully hard. But if you wouldonly understand, you could make it all easy enough.”

“I will—­I do understand.”

But Peter could not make up his mind even now to beexplicit.

“You see,” he said, “Sarah is—­notlike other girls.”

“Of course not,” said his mother.

She controlled her impatience, reminding herself thatPeter was very young, and that he had never been inlove before.

“She’s a kind of—­of queen,”said Peter, dreamily. “I only wish youcould have seen what it was in London.”

“I can imagine it,” said Lady Mary.

“No, you couldn’t. I hadn’tan idea what she would be there, until I went to Londonand saw for myself,” said Peter, who measuredeverybody’s imagination by his own.

“You see,” he explained “my positionhere, which seems so important to you and the otherpeople round here, and used to seem so importantto me—­is—­just nothing at allcompared to what has been cast at her feet, as itwere, over and over again, for her to pick up if shechose. And this house,” said Peter, glancinground and shaking his head—­“thishouse, which seems so beautiful to you now it’sall done up, if you’d only seen the housesshe’s accustomed to staying at.Tintern Castle, for instance—­”

“I was born in a greater house than TinternCastle, Peter,” said Lady Mary, gently.

“Oh, of course. I’m saying nothingagainst Ferries,” said Peter, impatiently.“But you only lived there as a child. Achild doesn’t notice.”

“Some children don’t,” said LadyMary, with that faint, wondering smile which hid herpain from Peter, and would have revealed it so clearlyto John.

“It isn’t that Sarah minds thisold house,” said Peter; “she was sayingwhat a pretty room she could make of the drawing-roomonly the other day.”

Lady Mary felt an odd pang at her heart. Shethought of the trouble John had taken to choose thebest of the water-colours for the rose-tinted room—­theroom he had declared so bright and so charming—­ofthe pretty curtains and chintzes; and the valuableold china she had collected from every part of thehouse for the cabinets.

“You see, she’s got that sort of thingat her fingers’ ends, Lady Tintern being sucha connoisseur,” said the unconscious Peter.“But she’s so afraid of hurting your feelings—­”

“Why should she be?” said Lady Mary, coldly,in spite of herself. “If she does not likethe drawing-room, she can easily alter it.”

“That’s what I say,” said Peter,with a touch of his father’s pomposity.“Surely a bride has a right to look forward toarranging her home as she chooses. And Sarahis mad about old French furniture—­LouisSeize, I think it is—­but I know nothingabout such things. I think a man should leavethe choice of furniture, and all that, to his wife—­especiallywhen her taste happens to be as good as Sarah’s.”

“I—­I think so too, Peter,”said Lady Mary.

Her thoughts wandered momentarily into the past; buthis eager tones recalled her attention.

“Then you won’t mind, so far?” saidPeter, anxiously.

“I—­why should I mind?” saidLady Mary, starting. “I believe—­Ihave read—­that old French furniture is allthe rage now.” Then she bethought herself,and uttered a faint laugh. “But I’mafraid your aunts might make it a little uncomfortablefor her, if she—­tried to alter anything.I—­go my own way now, and don’t mind—­buta young bride—­does not always like to befound fault with. She might find that relations-in-laware sometimes—­a little trying.”Lady Mary felt, as she spoke these words, that shewas somehow opening a way for herself as well as forPeter. She wondered, with a beating heart, whetherthe moment had come in which she ought to tell him—­

“That’s just it,” said Peter’svoice, breaking in on her thoughts. “That’sjust what Sarah means, and what I was trying to leadup to; only I’m no diplomatist. But that’sone of the greatest objections she has to marryingme, quite apart from disappointing her aunt. Ican’t blame Lady Tintern,” said Peter,with a new and strange humility, “for not thinkingme good enough for Sarah; and that’s nota difficulty I can ever hope to remove.Sarah is the one to decide that point. But aboutrelations-in-law—­it’s what I’vebeen trying to tell you all this time.”He cleared his throat, which had grown dry and husky.“She says that when she marries she—­sheintends to have her house to herself.”

There was a pause.

“I see,” said Lady Mary.

She was silent; not, as Peter thought, with mortification;but because she could not make up her mind what wordsto choose, in which to tell him that it was freedomand happiness he was thus offering her with both hands;and not, as he thought, loneliness and disappointment.

Twice she essayed to speak, and failed through sheerembarrassment. The second time Peter lifted herhand to his lips. She felt through all her consciousnessthe shy remorse which prompted that rare caress.

“The—­the Dower House,” falteredPeter, “is only a few yards away.”

A sudden desire to laugh aloud seized Lady Mary.His former words returned upon her memory.

“It’s—­it’s rather damp,isn’t it?” she said, in a shaking voice.

He looked into her face, and did not understand thebrightness of the smile that was shining through hertears.

“But it’s very picturesque,” saidPeter, “and—­and roomy. You andmy aunts would be quite snug there; and it could bevery prettily decorated, Sarah says.”

“Perhaps Sarah would advise us on the subject?”said Lady Mary, unable to resist this thrust.

“I’m sure she’d be delighted,”said Peter, simply.

Lady Mary fell back on her cushions and laughed helplessly,almost hysterically.

“I don’t see why you should laugh,”said Peter, in a rather sore tone. “I don’tknow how it is, but I never can understand you,mother.”

“I see you can’t. Never mind, Peter,”said Lady Mary. She sat up, and lifted her prettyhands to smooth the soft waves of her brown hair.“So I’m to settle down happily in my DowerHouse, and take your aunts to live with me?”

“Why, you see,” said Peter, “wecouldn’t very well let the poor old things wanderaway alone into the world, could we?”

“I think,” said Lady Mary, slowly, “thatthey can take care of themselves. And it is justpossible that they may have foreseen—­yourchange of intentions.”

“Women can never take care of themselves,”said Peter. “And how can they have foreseen?I had no idea myself of this happening.But they would be perfectly happy in the Dower House;it is close by, and I could see them very often.It wouldn’t be like leaving Barracombe.”

“Yes, I think they could be happy there,”said Lady Mary. She felt that the moment hadcome at last. Her heart beat thickly, and hercolour came and went. “But if theywere happily settled at the Dower House,” shesaid slowly, for her agitation was making her breathless,and she did not want Peter to notice it,”—­Iwould willingly give it up to them altogether.It could not matter whether I were there ornot. Though they are old, they are perfectly ableto look after themselves—­and other people;and if they were not, they would not like meto take care of them. They have their own servantsand Mrs. Ash. And they have never liked me, Peter,though we have lived together so many years.”

“That is nonsense,” said Peter, very calmly;“and if they don’t want you there,mother, I do. Of course you must live atthe Dower House; my father left it to you. AndI shall want you more than ever now.”

“I don’t see how,” said Lady Mary.

“Why, we—­Sarah and I,”said Peter, lingering fondly over the words whichlinked that beloved name with his own, “if weever—­if it ever came off—­weshall naturally be away from home a good deal.I couldn’t ask Sarah to tie herself down tothis dull old place, could I?”

“I suppose not,” said Lady Mary.

“She’s accustomed to going about the worlda good deal,” said Peter.

“No doubt.”

“Even I,” said Peter, turning aflushed face towards his mother—­“Iam too young, as Sarah says—­and I feel itmyself since I have seen something of the life shelives—­to become a complete fixture, likemy father was. It’s—­it’s,as Sarah says—­it’s narrowing.I can see the effects of it upon you all,” saidPeter, calmly, “when I come back here.”

He could not fathom the wistfulness which cloudedthe blue eyes she lifted to his face.

“It is very narrowing,” she said humbly.

“One may devote one’s self to one’sduties as a landed proprietor,” said Peter,with another recurrence of pomposity, “and yetsee something of one’s fellow-men.”

He replaced the eyeglass, and walked up and down theroom for a few moments, as though he were pacing aquarter-deck. He looked very tall, and very,very slight and thin; older than his years, tannedand dried by the African sun, which had enhanced hisnatural darkness. Though he spoke as a boy, helooked like a man. His mother’s heart yearnedover him.

Peter had taken his lack of perception with him intothe heart of South Africa, and brought it back intact.Because his body had travelled many hundreds of milesover land and sea, he believed that his mind had openedin proportion to the distance covered. He knewthat men and women of action pick up knowledge of theworld without pausing on their busy way; but he didnot know that it is to the silent, the sorrowful,and the solitary—­to those who have timeto listen—­that God reveals the secretsof life.

She said to herself that everything about him wasdear to her; his grey eyes, that never saw below thesurface of things; his thin, brown face; his youthfulaffectation; the strange, new growth which shadedhis long upper lip, and softened the plainness of theCrewys physiognomy, which Peter would not have barteredfor the handsomest set of Greek features ever imaginedby a sculptor. Even for his faults Lady Maryhad a tender toleration; for Peter would not have beenPeter without them.

“It would not be fair on Sarah, knowing allLondon—­worth knowing—­as shedoes,” said Peter with pardonable exaggeration,“to rob her of the season altogether. Weshall go up regularly, every year, if—­ifshe marries me. Of that I am determined, andso”—­incidentally—­“isshe.”

“Nothing could be nicer,” said Lady Mary,heartily enough to satisfy even Peter.

He spoke with more warmth and naturalness. “Shelikes to go abroad, mother, too, now and then,”he said.

“That would be delightful,” said LadyMary, eagerly. Her blue eyes sparkled. Herinterest and enthusiasm were easily roused, after all;and surely these new ideas would make it much easierto tell Peter. “Oh, Peter!” she said,clasping her hands, “Paris—­Rome—­Switzerland!”

“Wherever Sarah fancies,” said Peter,magnanimously. “I can’t say I caremuch. All I am thinking of is—­beingwith her. It doesn’t matter where,so long as she is pleased. What does anythingmatter,” he said, and his dark face softenedas she had never seen it soften yet, “so longas one is with the companion one loves best in theworld?”

“It would be—­Paradise,” saidLady Mary, in a low voice; and she thought to herselfresolutely, “I will tell him now.”

Peter ceased his walk, and came close to her and tookher hand. The emotion had not altogether diedout of his voice and face.

“But you are not to think, mother, that I shallever again be the selfish boy I used to be—­theboy who didn’t value your love and devotion.”

“No, dear, no,” she answered, with weteyes; “I will never think so. We can loveeach other just the same, perhaps even batter, eventhough—­Oh, Peter—­”

But Peter was in no mind to brook interruption.He was burning to pour out his plans for her future,and his own.

“Wherever we may go, and whatever we may bedoing,” he said emotionally, “it willbe a joy and a comfort to me to know that my dearold mother is always here. Taking careof the place and looking after the people, and waitingalways to welcome me, with her old sweet smile onher dear old face.”

Peter was not often moved to such enthusiasm, andhe was almost overcome by his own eloquence in describingthis beautiful picture.

Lady Mary was likewise overcome. She sank backonce more in her cushioned corner, looking at himwith a blank dismay that could not escape even hisdull observation. How impossible it was to tellPeter, after all! How impossible he always madeit!

“I know you must feel it just at first,”he said anxiously; “but you—­you can’texpect to keep me all to yourself for ever.”

She shook her head, and tried to smile.

He grew a little impatient. “After all,”he said, “you must be reasonable, mother.Every one has to live his own life.”

Then Lady Mary found words. A sudden rush ofindignation—­the pent-up feelings of years—­broughtthe scarlet blood to her cheeks and the fire to hergentle, blue eyes.

“Every one—­but me” shesaid, trembling violently.

“You!” said Peter, astonished.

She clasped her hands against her bosom to still thepanting and throbbing that, it seemed to her, mustbe evident outwardly, so strong was the emotion thatshook her fragile form.

“Every one—­but me,” she said.“Does it never—­strike you—­Peter—­thatI, too, would like to live before I die? Whilstyou are living your own life, why shouldn’tI be living mine? Why shouldn’t Igo to London, and to Paris, and to Rome, and to Switzerland,or wherever I choose, now that you—­you—­haveset me free?”

“Mother,” said Peter, aghast, “areyou gone mad?”

“Perhaps I am a little mad,” said poorLady Mary. “People go mad sometimes, whohave been too long—­in prison—­theysay.” Then she saw his real alarm, andlaughed till she cried. “I am not reallymad,” she said. “Do not be frightened,Peter. I—­I was only joking.”

“It is enough to frighten anybody when you goon like that,” said Peter, relieved, but angry.“Talking of prison, and rushing about all overthe world—­I see no joke in that.”

“Why should I be the only one who must not rushall over the world?” said Lady Mary.

“You must know perfectly well it would be preposterous,”said Peter, sullenly, “to break up all yourhabits, and leave Barracombe and—­and allof us—­and start a fresh life—­atyour age. And if this is how you mock at me andall my plans, I’m sorry I ever took you intomy confidence at all. I might have known I shouldrepent it,” he said; and a sob of angry resentmentbroke his voice.

“Indeed, I am not mocking at you, Peter,”she said, sorely repentant and ashamed of her outburst.“Forgive me, darling! I see it was—­notthe moment. You do not understand. You arethinking only of Sarah, as is natural just now.It was not the moment for me to be talking of myself.”

“You never used to be selfish,” said Peter,thawing somewhat, as she threw her arms about him,and rested her head against his shoulder.

She laughed rather sadly. “But perhapsI am growing selfish—­in my old age,”said Peter’s mother.

Later, Lady Mary sought John Crewys in the smoking-room.He sprang up, smiled at her, and held out his hand.

“So Peter has been confiding his schemes toyou?”

“How did you know?”

“I only guessed. When a man seeks a tete-a-teteso earnestly, it is generally to talk about himself.Did the schemes include—­Sarah?”

“They include Sarah—­marriage—­travelling—­London—­changeof every kind.”

“Already!” cried John, “Bravo, Peter!and hurray for one-and-twenty! And you are free?”

“Oh, no; I am not to be free.”

“What! Do his schemes include you?”

“Not altogether.”

“That is surely illogical, if yours are to includehim?”

She smiled faintly. “I am to be alwayshere, to look after the place when he and Sarah aretravelling or in London. I am to live with hisaunts. He wants to be able to think of me as alwayswaiting here to welcome him home, as—­asI have been all his life. Not actually in thishouse, because—­Sarah—­my littleSarah—­wouldn’t like that, it seems;but in the Dower House, close by.”

“I see,” said John. “How delightfullyingenuous, and how pleasingly unselfish a very youngman can sometimes be!”

“Ah! don’t laugh at me, John,” shesaid tremulously. “Indeed, just now, Icannot bear it.”

“Laugh at you, my queen—­my saint!How little you know me!” said John, tenderly.“It was at Peter that I was presuming to smile.”

“Is it a laughing matter?” she said wistfully.

“I think it will be, Mary.”

“I tried so hard to tell him,” said LadyMary, “but I couldn’t. Somehow hemade it impossible. He looks upon me as quite,quite old.”

John laughed outright. A laugh that rang trueeven to Lady Mary’s sensitive perceptions.

“But didn’t you look upon everybodyover thirty as, quite old when you were one-and-twenty?I’m sure I did.”

“Perhaps. But yet—­I don’tknow. I am his mother. It is natural heshould feel so. He made me realize how preposterousit was for me, the mother of a grown-up son, to bethinking selfishly of my own happiness, as thoughI were a young, fresh girl just starting life.”

“I had hoped,” said John, quietly, “thatyou might be thinking a little of my happiness too.”

“Oh, John! But your happiness and mineseemed all the same thing,” she said ingenuously.“Yet he thinks of my life as finished; and Iwas thinking of it as though it were beginning allover again. He made me feel so ashamed, so conscience-stricken.”She hid her face in her hands. “How couldI tell him?”

“I think,” said John, “that thetime has come when he must be told. I meant toput it off until he attained his majority; but sincehe has broached the subject of your leaving this househimself, he has given us the best opportunity possible.And I also think—­that the telling had betterbe left to me.”

CHAPTER XVIII

John Crewys stood on the walk below the terrace, withPeter by his side, enjoying an after-breakfast smoke,and watching a party of sportsmen climbing up thebracken-clothed slopes of the opposite hillside.A dozen beaters were toiling after the guns, amongwhom the short and sturdy figure of Colonel Hewelwas very plainly to be distinguished. A boy wasleading a pony-cart for the game.

Sarah had accepted an invitation to dine and spendthe evening with her beloved Lady Mary at Barracombe;but Peter had another appointment with her besides,of which Lady Mary knew nothing. He was to meether at the ferry, and picnic on the moor at the topof the hill, on his side of the river. But throughall the secret joy and triumph that possessed himat the remembrance of this rendezvous, he could notbut sigh as he watched the little procession of sportsmenopposite, and almost involuntarily his regret escapedhim in the half-muttered words—­

“I shall never shoot again.”

“There are things even better worth doing inlife,” said John, sympathetically.

“Colonel Hewel wouldn’t give in to that,”said Peter.

“He’s rather a one-idea’d man,”John agreed. “But if you asked him whetherhe’d sacrifice all the sport he’s everlikely to enjoy, for one chance to distinguish himselfin action—­why, you’re a soldier,and you know best what he’d say.”

Peter’s brow cleared. “You’vegot a knack,” he said, almost graciously, “ofputting a fellow in a good humour with himself, CousinJohn.”

“I generally find it easier to be in a goodhumour with myself than with other people,”said John, whimsically. “One expects solittle from one’s self, that one is scarcelyever disappointed; and so much from other people,that nothing they can do comes up to one’s expectations.”

“I don’t know about that,” saidPeter, bluntly. “Old Crawley says youtake it out of yourself like anything. Since Icame back this time, he’s been holding forthto me about all you’ve done for me and the estate,and all that. I didn’t know my father hadleft things in such a mess. And that was a smartthing you did about buying in the farm, and settlingthe dispute with the Crown, which my father used tobe so worried over. I see I’ve got a goodbit to thank you for, Cousin John. I—­I’mno end grateful, and all that.”

“All right,” said John. “Don’tbother to make speeches, old boy.”

“I must say one thing, though,” said Peter,awkwardly. “I was against all the changes,and thought they might have been left till I camehome; but I didn’t realize it was to be now ornever, as old Crawley puts it, and that I’mnot to have the right to touch my capital when I comeof age.”

“The whole arrangement was rather an unusualone; but everything’s worked out all right,and, as far as the estate goes, you’ll find itin pretty fair order to start upon, and values increased,”said John, quietly. “But Crawley has thewhole thing at his fingers’ ends, and the interestof the place thoroughly at heart. You couldn’thave a better adviser.”

“He’s well enough,” said Peter,somewhat ungraciously.

“Shall we take a turn up and down?” saidJohn. He lighted a fresh cigarette. “Thereis a chill feeling in the air, though it is such alovely morning.”

“It will be warmer when the sun has conqueredthe mist,” said Peter, with a slight shiver.

The white dew on the long grass, and the gossamercobwebs spun in a single night from twig to twig ofthe rose-trees, glittered in the sunshine.

The autumn roses bloomed cheerfully in the long border,and the robins were singing loudly on the terraceabove. The heavy heads of the dahlias droopedbeneath their weight of moisture, in these last daysof their existence, before the frost would bring themto a sudden end. Capucines, in every shade ofbrown and crimson and gold, ran riot over the ground.

Peter drew a pipe from his pocket, put it in his mouth,took out his tobacco-pouch, and filled the pipe withhis left hand.

John watched him with interest. “That wasdexterously done.”

“I’m getting pretty handy,” saidthe hero, with satisfaction, striking a match; “but”—­hisface fell anew—­“no more football;one feels that sort of thing just at the beginningof the season. No more games. It wouldn’ttell so much on a fellow like you, Cousin John, who’sperfectly happy with a book, and who—­”

“Who’s too old for games,” suggestedJohn.

“Oh, there’s always golf,” saidPeter.

“A refuge for the aged, eh?” said John,and his eyes twinkled. “But Miss Sarahsays you bid fair to beat her at croquet.”

“Oh, she was—­just rotting,”said Peter; and the tone touched John, though he detestedslang. “And what’s croquet, afterall, to a fellow that’s used to exercise?I suppose I shall be all right again hunting, whenI’ve got my nerve back a bit. At presentit’s rotten. A fellow feels so beastlyhelpless and one-sided. However, that’llwear off, I expect.”

“I hope so,” said John.

They reached the end of the long walk, and stood fora moment beneath the eastern turret, watching thesparkles on the brown surface of the river below,and the white mist floating away down the valley.

“Talking of advice,” said Peter, abruptly—­“ifI wanted that, I’d rather come to youthan to old Crawley. After all, though you won’tbe my guardian much longer, you’re still mymother’s trustee.”

“Yes,” said John, smiling; “thelaw still entitles me to take an interest in—­inyour mother.”

“Of course I shouldn’t dream of mentioningher affairs, or mine either, for that matter, to anyone else,” said Peter.

He made an exception in his own mind, but decidedthat it was not necessary to explain this to John,for the moment.

“Thank you, Peter,” said John.

“My mother—­seems to me,” saidPeter, slowly, “to have changed very much sinceI went to South Africa. Have you noticed it?”

“I have,” said John, dryly.

“I don’t suppose,” said Peter, quickeninghis steps, “that any one could realize exactlywhat I feel about it.”

“I think—­perhaps—­I could,”said John, without visible satire, “dimly and,no doubt, inadequately.”

“The fact is,” said Peter, and the warmcolour rushed into his brown face, even to his thintemples, “I—­I’m hoping to getmarried very soon; though nothing’s exactlysettled yet.”

“A man in your position generally marries early,”said John. “I think you’re quiteright.”

“As my mother likes—­the girl I wantto marry,” said Peter, “I hoped it wouldmake everything straight. But she seems quitemiserable at the thought of settling down quietlyin the Dower House.”

“Ah! in the Dower House,” said John.“Then you will not be wanting her to live herewith you, after all?”

“It’s the same thing, though,” saidPeter, “as I’ve tried to explain to her.She’d be only a few yards off; and she couldstill be looking after the place and my interests,and all that, as she does now. And whenever Iwas down here, I should see her constantly; you knowhow devoted I am to my mother. Of course I can’tdeny I did lead her to hope I should be always withher. But a man can’t help it if he happensto fall in love. Of course, if—­if allhappens as I hope, as I have reason to hope, I shallhave to be away from her a good deal.But that’s all in the course of nature as a fellowgrows up. I sha’n’t be any the lessglad to see her when I do come home. Andyet here she is talking quite wildly of leaving Barracombealtogether, and going to London, and travelling allover the world, and doing all sorts of things she’snever done in her life. It’s not like mymother, and I can’t bear to think of her likethat. I tell you she’s changed altogether,”said Peter, and there were tears in his grey eyes.

John felt an odd sympathy for the boy; he recognizedthat though Peter’s limitations were obvious,his anxiety was sincere.

Peter, too, had his ideals; if they were ideals conventionaland out of date, that was hardly his fault. Johnfigured to himself very distinctly that imaginarymother whom Peter held sacred; the mother who stayedalways at home, and parted her hair plainly, and saidmany prayers, and did much needlework; but who, nevertheless,was not, and never could be, the real Lady Mary, whomPeter did not know. But it was a tender idealin its way, though it belonged to that past into whichso many tender and beautiful visions have faded.

The maiden of to-day still dreams of the knightlyarmour-clad heroes of the twelfth century; it is nother fault that she is presently glad to fall in lovewith a gentleman on the Stock Exchange, in a top hatand a frock coat.

“I have seen something of women of the world,”said Peter, who had scarcely yet skimmed the bubblesfrom the surface of that society, whose depths hebelieved himself to have explored. “I supposethat is what my mother wants to turn into, when shetalks of London and Paris. My mother! who haslived in the country all her life.”

“I suppose some women are worldly,” saidJohn, as gravely as possible, “and no doubtthe shallow-hearted, the stupid, the selfish are tobe found everywhere, and belonging to either sex;but, nevertheless, solid virtue and true kindnessare to be met with among the dames of Mayfair as amongthe matrons of the country-side. Their shibbolethis different, that’s all. Perhaps—­itis possible—­that the speech of the townladies is the more charitable, that they seek morepersistently to do good to their fellow-creatures.I don’t know. Comparisons are odious, butso,” he added, with a slight laugh, “aregeneral conclusions, founded on popular prejudicerather than individual experience—­odious.”

Here John perceived that his words of wisdom wereconveying hardly any meaning to Peter, who was onlywaiting impatiently till he had come to an end ofthem; so he pursued this topic no further, and contentedhimself by inquiring:

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to explain to her,” said Peter,eagerly, “how unsuitable it would be; and toadvise her to settle down quietly at the Dower House,as I’m sure my father would have wished her todo. That’s all.”

“I see,” said John, “you want meto put the case to her from your point of view.”

“I wish you would,” said Peter, earnestly;“every one says you’re so eloquent.Surely you could talk her over?”

“I hope I am not eloquent in private life,”said John, laughing. “But if you want toknow how it appears to me—?”

Peter nodded gravely, pipe in mouth.

“Let us see. To start with,” saidJohn, thoughtfully, “you went off, a boy fromEton, to serve your country when you thought, and rightly,that your country had need of you. You distinguishedyourself in South Africa—­”

“Surely you needn’t go into all that?”said Peter, staring.

“Excuse me,” said John, smiling.“In putting your case, I can’t bear toleave out vital details. Merely professional prejudice.Shortly, then, you fully sustained your share in along and arduous campaign; you won your commission;you were wounded, decorated, and invalided home.”

He stopped short in the brilliant sunshine which nowflooded their path, and looked gravely at Peter.

“Some of us,” said John, “have imaginationenough to realize, even without the help of war-correspondents,the scenes of horror through which you, and scoresof other boys, fresh from school, like you, had tolive through. We can picture the long hours onthe veldt—­on the march—­in captivity—­inthe hospitals—­in the blockhouses—­whensoldiers have been sick at heart, wearied to deathwith physical suffering, and haunted by ghastly memoriesof dead comrades.”

Peter hurriedly drew his left hand from the pocketwhere the beloved tobacco-pouch reposed, and pulledhis brown felt hat down over his eyes, as though theOctober sunlight hurt them.

“I think at such times, Peter,” said John,quietly continuing his walk by the boy’s side,“that you must have longed now and then for yourhome; for this peaceful English country, your greenEnglish woods, and the silent hall where your motherwaited for you, trembled for you, prayed for you.I think your heart must have ached then, as so manymen’s hearts have ached, to remember the timeswhen you might have made her happy by a word, or alook, or a smile. And you didn’t do it,Peter—­you didn’t do it.”

Peter made a restless movement indicative of surpriseand annoyance; but he was silent still, and John changedhis tone, and spoke lightly and cheerfully.

“Well, then you came home; and your joy of life,of youth, of health all returned; and you looked forward,naturally, to taking your share of the pleasures opento other young men of your standing. But younever meant to forget your mother, as so many carelesssons forget those who have watched and waited forthem. Even though you fell in love, you stillthought of her. When you were weary of travel,or pleasure connected with the outside world, youmeant always to return to her. You liked to thinkshe would still be waiting for you; faithfully, gratefullywaiting, within the sacred precincts of your childhood’shome. And now, when you remember her submissionto your father’s wishes in the past, and hersingle-hearted devotion to yourself, you are shockedand disappointed to find that she can wish to descendfrom her beautiful and guarded solitude here, and mixwith her fellow-creatures in the work-a-day world.Why,” said John, in a tone rather of dreamingand tenderness than of argument, “that wouldbe to tear the jewel from its setting—­thenoble central figure from the calm landscape, litby the evening sun.”

There was a pause, during which Peter smoked energetically.

“Well,” he said presently, “of courseI can’t follow all that highfalutin’ style,you know—­”

“Of course not,” said John, “I understand.You’re a plain Englishman.”

“Exactly,” said Peter, relieved; “Iam. But one thing I will say—­you’vegot the idea.”

“Thank you,” said John.

“If you can put it like that to my mother,”said Peter, still busy with his pipe, but speakingvery emphatically, “why, all I can say is, thatI believe it’s the way to get round her.I’ve often noticed how useless it seems to talkcommon-sense to her. But a word of sentiment—­andthere you are. Strange to say, she likes nothingbetter than—­er—­poetry. Ihope you don’t mind my calling you rather poetical,”said Peter, in a tone of sincere apology. “Iwish, John, you’d go straight to my mother,and put the whole case before her, just like that.”

“The whole case!” said John. “But,my dear fellow, that’s only half the case.”

“What do you mean?”

“The other half,” said John, “isthe case from her point of view.”

“I don’t see,” said Peter, “howher point of view can be different from mine.”

John’s thoughts flew back to a February evening,more than two years earlier. It seemed to himthat Sir Timothy stood before him, surprised, pompous,argumentative. But he saw only Peter, lookingat him with his father’s grey eyes set in aboy’s thin face.

“My experience as a barrister,” he said,with a curious sense of repeating himself, “hastaught me that it is possible for two persons to takediametrically opposite views of the same question.”

“And what happens then?” said Peter, stupidly.

“Our bread and butter.”

“But why should my mother leave the placeshe’s lived in for years and years, and go gaddingabout all over the world—­at her time oflife? I don’t see what can be said for thewisdom of that?”

“Nothing from your point of view, I dare say,”said John. “Much from hers. If youare willing to listen, and if,” he added smiling,as an afterthought, “you will promise not tointerrupt?”

“Well,” said Peter, rather doubtfully,“all right, I promise. You won’tbe long, I suppose?”

He glanced stealthily down towards the ferry, thoughhe knew that Sarah would not be there for a coupleof hours at least, and that he could reach it in lessthan ten minutes. But half the pleasure of meetingSarah consisted in waiting for her at the trysting-place.

John observed the glance, and smiled imperceptibly.He took out his watch.

“I shall speak,” he said, carefully examiningit, “for four minutes.”

“Let’s sit,” said Peter. “It’swarm enough now, in all conscience.”

They sat upon an old stone bench below the turret.Peter leant back with his black head resting againstthe wall, his felt hat tipped over his eyes and hispipe in his mouth. He looked comfortable, evengood-humoured.

“Go ahead,” he murmured.

“To understand the case from your mother’spoint of view, I am afraid it is necessary,”said John, “to take a rapid glance at the circ*mstancesof her life which have—­which have made herwhat she is. She came here, as a child, didn’tshe, when her father died; and though he had justsucceeded to the earldom, he died a very poor man?Your father, as her guardian, spared no pains, norexpense for that matter, in educating and maintainingher. When she was barely seventeen years old,he married her.”

There was a slight dryness in John’s voice ashe made the statement, which accounted for the gruffnessof Peter’s acquiescence.

“Of course—­she was quite willing,”said John, understanding the offence implied by Peter’sgrowl. “But as we are looking at thingsexclusively from her point of view just now, we mustnot forget that she had seen nothing of the world,nothing of other men. She had also”—­hecaught his breath—­“a bright, gay,pleasure-loving disposition; but she moulded herselfto seriousness to please her husband, to whom sheowed everything. When other girls of her age wereplaying at love—­thinking of dances, andgames and outings—­she was absorbed in motherhoodand household cares. A perfect wife, a perfectmother, as poor human nature counts perfection.”

Lady Mary would have cried out in vehement contradictionand self-reproach, had she heard these words; butPeter again growled reluctant acquiescence, when Johnpaused.

“In one day,” said John, slowly, “shewas robbed of husband and child. Her husbandby death; her boy, her only son, by his own will.He deserted her without even bidding, or intendingto bid her, farewell. Hush—­remember,this is from her point of view.”

Peter had started to his feet with an angry exclamation;but he sat down again, and bent his sullen gaze onthe garden path as John continued. His brownface was flushed; but John’s low, deep tones,now tender, now scornful, presently enchained and evenfascinated his attention. He listened intently,though angrily.

“Her grief was passionate, but—­herlife was not over,” said John. “She,who had been guided from childhood by the wishes ofothers, now found that, without neglecting any duty,she could consult her own inclinations, indulge herown tastes, choose her own friends, enjoy with allthe fervour of an unspoilt nature the world which openedfreshly before her: a world of art, of music,of literature, of a thousand interests which meanso much to some of us, so little to others. Toher returns this formerly undutiful son, and finds—­apassionately devoted mother, indeed, but also a womanin the full pride of her beauty and maturity.And this boy would condemn her—­themost delightful, the most attractive, the most unselfishcompanion ever desired by a man—­to sit inthe chimney-corner like an old crone with a distaff,throughout all the years that fate may yet hold instore for her—­with no greater interest inlife than to watch the fading of her own sweet facein the glass, and to await the intervals during whichhe would be graciously pleased to afford her the consolationof his presence.”

“Have you done?” said Peter, furiously.

“I could say a good deal more,” said John,growing suddenly cool. “But”—­heshowed his watch—­“my time is up.”

“What—­what do you mean by all this?”said the boy, stammering with passion. “Whatis my mother to you?”

The time had come.

John’s bright hazel eyes had grown stern; hismiddle-aged face, flushed with the emotion his ownwords had aroused, yet controlled and calm in everyline of handsome feature and steady brow, confrontedPeter’s angry, bewildered gaze.

“She is the woman I love,” said John.“The woman I mean to make my wife.”

He remained seated, silently waiting for Peter toimbibe and assimilate his words.

After a quick gasp of incredulous indignation, Peter,too, sat silent at his side.

John gave him time to recover before he spoke again.

“I hope,” he said, very gently, “thatwhen you have thought it over, you won’t mindit so much. As it’s going to be—­itwould be pleasanter if you and I could be friends.I think, later on, you may even perceive advantagesin the arrangement—­under the circ*mstances;when you have recovered from your natural regret inrealizing that she must leave Barracombe—­”

“It isn’t that,” said Peter, hoarsely.He felt he must speak; and he also desired, it mustbe confessed, to speak offensively, and relieve himselfsomewhat of the accumulated rage and resentment thatwas burning in his breast. “It’s—­it’ssimply”—­he said, flushing darkly,and turning his face away from John’s calm andfriendly gaze—­“that to me—­tome, the idea is—­ridiculous.”

“Ah!” said John. He rose from thestone bench. A spark of anger came to him, too,as he looked at Peter, but he controlled his voiceand his temper. “The time will come,”he said, “when your imagination will be ableto grasp the possibility of love between a man in theforties and a woman in the thirties. At least,for your sake, I hope it will.”

“Why for my sake?” said Peter.

“Because I should be sorry,” said John,“if you died young.”

CHAPTER XIX

Nearly a thousand feet above the fertile valley ofthe Youle, stretched a waste of moorland. Hereall the trees were gnarled and dwarfed above the patchesof rust-coloured bracken; save only the delicate silverbirch, which swayed and yielded to the wind.

Great boulders were scattered among the thorn bushes,and over their rough and glistening breasts were flungvelvet coverings of green moss and grey lichen.

On this October day, the heather yet sturdily borea few last rosy blossoms, and the ripe blackberriesshone like black diamonds on the straggling brambles.Here and there a belated furze-bush erected its goldencrown.

Over the dim purple of the distant hills, a brighterpurple line proclaimed the sea. Closer at hand,on a ridge exposed to every wind of heaven, sigheda little wood of stunted larch and dull blue pine,against a clear and brilliant sky.

Sarah was enthroned on a mossy stone, beneath theyellowing foliage of a sheltering beech.

Her glorious ruddy hair was uncovered, and a Tyrolesehat was hung on a neighbouring bramble, beside a littletweed coat. She wore a loose white canvas shirt,and short tweed skirt; a brown leather belt, and brownleather boots.

Being less indifferent to creature-comforts than tothe preservation of her complexion, Miss Sarah waspaying great attention to the contents of a market-basketby her side. She had chosen a site for the picnicnear a bubbling brook, and had filled her glass withclear sparkling water therefrom, before seating herselfto enjoy her cold chicken and bread and butter, anda slice of game-pie.

Peter was very far from feeling any inclination towardsdisplaying the hilarity which an outdoor meal is supposedto provoke. He was obliged to collect sticks,and put a senseless round-bottomed kettle on a dampreluctant fire; to himself he used much stronger adjectivesin describing both; he relieved his feelings slightlyby saying that he never ate lunch, and by gloomilyeying the game-pie instead of aiding Sarah to demolish*t.

“It wouldn’t be a picnic without a kettleand a fire; and we must have hot water to washup with. I brought a dish-cloth on purpose,”said Sarah. “I can’t think why youdon’t enjoy yourself. You used to be fondof eating and drinking—­anywhere—­andmost of all on the moor—­in the good olddays that are gone.”

“I am not a philosopher like you,” saidPeter, angrily.

“I am anything but that,” said Sarah,with provoking cheerfulness. “A philosopheris a thoughtful middle-aged person who puts off enjoyinglife until it’s too late to begin.”

“I hate middle-aged people,” said Peter.

“I am not very fond of them myself, as a rule,”said Sarah, indulgently. “They aren’tnice and amusing to talk to, like you and me; or rather”(with a glance at her companion’s face), “likeme; and they aren’t picturesque and fondof spoiling us, as really old people are.They are just busy trying to get all they can out ofthe world, that’s all. But there are exceptions;or, of course, it wouldn’t be a rule. Yourmother is an exception. No one, young or old,was ever more picturesque or—­or more altogetherdelicious. It was I who taught her that new wayof doing her hair. By-the-by, how do you likeit?”

“I don’t like it at all,” growledPeter.

“Perhaps you preferred the old way,” saidSarah, turning up her short nose rather scornfully.“Parted, indeed, and brushed down flat overher ears, exactly like that horrid old Mrs. Ash!”

“Mrs. Ash has lived with us for thirty years,”said Peter, in a tone implying that he desired noliberties to be taken with the names of his faithfulretainers.

“That doesn’t make her any better looking,however,” retorted Sarah. “In fact,she might have had more chance of learning how to doher hair properly anywhere else, now I come to thinkof it.”

“Of course everything at Barracombe is uglyand old-fashioned,” said Peter, gloomily.

“Except your mother,” said Sarah.

“Sarah! I can’t stand any more ofthis rot!” said Peter, starting from his couchof heather. “Will you talk sense, or letme?”

Sarah shot a keen glance of inquiry at his moody face.

“Well,” she said, in resigned tones, “Idid hope to finish my lunch in peace. I saw therewas something the matter when you came striding upthe hill without a word, but I thought it was onlythat you found the basket too heavy. Of course,if I had known it was only to be lunch for one, Iwould not have put in so many things; and certainlynot a whole bottle of papa’s best claret.In fact, if I had known I was to picnic practicallyalone, I would not have crossed the river at all.”

Then she saw that Peter was in earnest, and with asigh of regret, Sarah returned the dish of jam-puffsto the basket.

“I couldn’t talk sense, or even listento it, with those heavenly puffs under my very nose,”she said. “Now, what is it?”

“I hate telling you—­I hate talkingof it,” said Peter, and a dark flush rose tohis frowning eyebrows. He threw himself once moreat Sarah’s feet, and turned his face away fromher, and towards the blue streak of distant sea.“John Crewys wants to marry—­my mother,”he said in choking tones.

“Is that all?” said Sarah. “I’veseen that for ages. Aren’t you glad?”

“Glad!” said Peter.

“I thought,” Sarah said innocently, “thatyou wanted to marry me?”

“Sarah!”

“Well!” said Sarah. She looked ratheroddly at Peter’s recumbent figure. Thenshe pushed the loosened waves of her red hair fromher forehead with a determined gesture. “Well,”she said defiantly, “isn’t that one obstacleto our marriage removed? Your aunts will go tothe Dower House, and your mother will leave Barracombe,and you’ll have the place all to yourself.And you dare to tell me you’re sorry?”

“Yes,” said Peter, sitting up and facingher, “I dare.”

“I’m glad of that,” said Sarah.Her deep voice softened. “I should havethought less of you if you hadn’t dared.”

Suddenly she rose from her mossy throne, shook thecrumbs off her skirt, and looked down upon Peter withblue eyes sparkling beneath her long lashes, and thefresh red colour deepening and spreading in her cheeks,until even the tips of her delicate ears and her creamythroat turned pink.

“Well,” said Sarah, “go andstop it. Make your mother sorry and ashamed.It would be very easy. Tell her she’s tooold to be happy. But say good-bye to me first.”

“Sarah!”

“Why is it to be all sunshine for you, and allshade for her?” said Sarah. “Hasn’tshe wept enough to please you? Mayn’t shehave her St. Martin’s summer? God givesit to her. Will you take it away?”

“Sarah!”

He looked up at her crimsoned tearful face in dismay.Was this Sarah the infantile—­the pink-and-white—­theseductive, laughing, impudent Sarah? And yethow passionately Peter admired her in this mood ofvirago, which he had never seen since the days of herchildish rages of long ago.

“Why do you suppose,” said Sarah, disdainfully,“that I’ve been letting you follow meabout all this summer, and desert her; exceptto show her how little you are to be depended upon?To bring home to her how foolish she’d be tofling away her happiness for your sake. You,who at one word from me, were willing to turn her outof her own home, to live in a wretched little villaat your very door. Don’t interrupt me,”said Sarah, stamping, “and say you weren’twilling. You told her so. I meant you totell her, and yet—­I could have killed you,Peter, when I heard her sweet voice faltering out tome, that she would be ready and glad to give up herplace to her boy’s wife, whenever the time shouldcome.”

“She told you?” cried Peter.

“But she didn’t say you’d askedher,” cried Sarah, scornfully. “Iknew it, but she never guessed I did. She wasonly gently smoothing away, as she hoped, the difficultiesthat lay in the path to your happiness.Oh, that she could have believed it of me! Butshe thinks only of your happiness. You, whowould snatch away hers this minute if you could.She never dreamt I knew you’d said a word.”

She paused in her impassioned speech, and the tearsdropped from the dark blue eyes. Sarah was crying,and Peter was speechless with awe and dismay.

“I think she would have died, Peter,”said Sarah, solemnly, “before she would havetold me how brutal you’d been, and how stupid,and how selfish. I meant you to show her allthat. I thought it would open her eyes.I was such a fool! As if anything could open theeyes of a mother to the faults of her only son.”

Peter looked at her with such despair and grief inhis dark face that her heart almost softened towardshim; but she hardened it again immediately.

“Do you mean that you—­you’vebeen playing with me all this time, Sarah? They—­everybodytold me—­that you were only playing—­butI’ve never believed it.”

“I meant to play with you,” saidSarah, turning, if possible, even redder than before;“I meant to teach you a lesson, and throw youover. And the more I saw of you, the more I didn’trepent. You, who dared to think yourself superiorto your mother; and, indeed, to any woman! Kingsare enslaved by women, you know,” said Miss Sarah,tossing her head, “and statesmen are led by them,though they oughtn’t to be. And—­andpoets worship them, or how could they write poetry?There would be nothing to write about. It is reservedfor boys and savages to look down upon them.”

She sat scornfully down again on her boulder, andput her hands to her loosened hair.

“I can’t think why a scene always makesone’s hair untidy,” said Sarah, suddenlybursting into a laugh; but the whiteness of Peter’sface frightened her, and she had some ado to laughnaturally. “And I am lost without a looking-glass,”she added, in a somewhat quavering tone of bravado.

She pulled out a great tortoise-shell dagger, anda heavy mass of glorious red-gold hair fell abouther piquant face, and her pretty milk-white throat,down to her waist.

“Dear me!” said Miss Sarah. She lookedaround. Near the bubbling brook, dark peaty hollowsheld little pools, which offered Nature’s mirrorfor her toilet.

She went to the side of the stream and knelt down.Her plump white hands dexterously twisted and securedthe long burnished coil. Then she glanced slylyround at Peter.

He lay face downwards on the grass. His shouldersheaved. The pretty picture Miss Sarah’scoquetry presented had been lost upon the foolishyouth.

She returned in a leisurely manner to her place, andleaning her chin on her hand, and her elbow on herknee, regarded him thoughtfully.

“Where was I? Yes, I remember. Itis a lesson for a girl, Peter, never to marry a boyor a savage.”

“Sarah!” said Peter. He raised hisface and looked at her. His eyes were red, buthe was too miserable to care; he was, as she had said,only a boy. “Sarah, you’re not inearnest! You can’t be! I—­Iknow I ought to be angry.” Miss Sarah laughedderisively. “Yes, you laugh, for you knowtoo well I can’t be angry with you. I loveyou!” said Peter, passionately, “thoughyou are—­as cruel as though I’ve nothad pretty well as much to bear to-day, as I knowhow to stand. First, John Crewys, and now you—­saying—­”

“Just the truth,” said Sarah, calmly.

“I don’t deny,” said Peter, in aquivering voice, “that—­that some ofthe beastly things he said came—­came hometo me. I’ve been a selfish brute to her,I always have been. You’ve said so prettyplainly, and I—­I dare say it’s true.I think it’s true. But to you—­andI was so happy.” He hid his face in hishand.

“I’m glad you have the grace to see theerror of your ways at last,” said Sarah, encouragingly.“It makes me quite hopeful about you. ButI’m sorry to see you’re still only thinkingof our happiness—­I mean yours,”she corrected herself in haste, for a sudden eagerhope flashed across Peter’s miserable youngface. “Yours, yours, yours.It’s your happiness and not hers you think ofstill, though you’ve all your life before you,and she has only half hers. But no one has everthought of her—­except me, and one other.”

“John Crewys?” said Peter, angrily.

“Not John Crewys at all,” snapped Sarah.“He is just thinking of his own happiness likeyou are. All men are alike, except the one I’mthinking of. But though I make no doubt that JohnCrewys is just as selfish as you are, which is sayinga good deal, yet, as it happens, John Crewys is theonly man who could make her happy.”

“What man are you thinking of?” said Peter.

Jealousy was a potent factor in his love for Sarah.He forgot his mother instantly, as he had forgottenher on the day of his return, when Sarah had walkedon to the terrace—­and into his heart.

“I name no names,” said Sarah, “butI hope I know a hero when I see him; and that manis a hero, though he is—­nothing much tolook at.”

It amused her to observe the varying expressions onher lover’s face, which her artless words calledforth, one after another.

“If you are really not going to eat any luncheon,Peter,” she said, “I must trouble youto help me to wash up and pack the basket. Thefire is out and the water is cold, but it can’tbe helped. The picnic has been a failure.”

“We have the whole afternoon before us.I cannot see that there is any hurry,” saidPeter, not stirring.

“I didn’t mean to break bad news to you,”said Sarah, “until we’d had a pleasantmeal together in comfort, and rested ourselves.But since you insist on spoiling everything with yourhorrid premature disclosures, I don’t see whyI shouldn’t do the same. I must be at homeby four o’clock, because Aunt Elizabeth is comingto Hewelscourt this very afternoon.”

“Lady Tintern!” cried Peter, in dismay.“Then you won’t be able to come to Barracombethis evening?”

“I am not in the habit of throwing over a dinnerengagement,” said Sarah, with dignity.“But in case they won’t let me come,”she added, with great inconsistency, “I’llput a lighted candle in the top window of the tower,as usual. But you can guess how many more of theseenjoyable expeditions we shall be allowed to make.Not that we need regret them if they are all to beas lively as this one. Still—­”

She helped herself to a jam-puff, and offered thedish to Peter, with an engaging smile. He helpedhimself absently.

“I don’t deny I am fond of taking mealsin the open air, and more especially on the top ofthe moor,” said Sarah, with a sigh of content.

“What has she come for?” said Peter.

“I shall be better able to tell you when I haveseen her.”

“Don’t you know?”

“I can pretty well guess. She’s goingto forgive me, for one thing. Then she’lltell me that I don’t deserve my good luck, butthat Lord Avonwick is so patient and so long-suffering,that he’s accepted her assurance that I don’tknow my own mind (and I’m not sure I do), andhe’s going to give me one more chance to becomeLady Avonwick, though I was so foolish as to say ‘No’to his last offer.”

“You didn’t say ‘No’ to mylast offer!” cried Peter.

“I don’t believe an offer of marriageis even legal before you’re one-and-twenty,”said Miss Sarah, derisively. “What did itmatter what I said? Haven’t I told youI was only playing?”

“You may tell me so a thousand times,”said Peter, doggedly, “but I shall never believeyou until I see you actually married to somebody else.”

CHAPTER XX

Lady Tintern was pleased to leave Paddington by amuch earlier train than could have been expected.She hired a fly, and a pair of broken-kneed horses,at Brawnton, and once more took her relations at Hewelscourtby surprise. On this occasion, however, she wasnot fortunate enough to find her invalid niece atplay in the stable-yard, though she detected her atluncheon, and warmly congratulated her upon her robustappearance and her excellent appetite.

Her journey had, no doubt, been undertaken with thevery intentions Sarah had described; but another motivealso prompted her, which Sarah had not divined.

Much as she desired to marry her grand-niece to LordAvonwick, she was not blind to the young man’spersonal disadvantages, which were undeniable; andwhich Peter had rudely summed up in a word by alludingto his rival as an ass. He was distinguished amongthe admirers of Miss Sarah’s red and white beautyby his brainlessness no less than by his eligibility.

Nevertheless, Lady Tintern had favoured his suit.She knew him to be a good fellow, although he wasa simpleton, and she was very sure that he loved Sarahsincerely.

“Whoever the girl marries, she will rule himwith a rod of iron. She had better marry a fooland be done with it. So why not an eligible andtitled and good-natured fool?” the old lady hadwritten to Mrs. Hewel, who was very far from understandingsuch reasoning, and wept resentfully over the letter.

Why should Lady Tintern snatch her only daughter awayfrom her in order to marry her to a fool? Mrs.Hewel was of opinion that a sensible young man likePeter would be a better match. She supposed nobodywould call Sir Peter Crewys of Barracombe a fool; andas for his being young, he was only a few months youngerthan Lord Avonwick, and Sarah would have just as prettya title, even if her husband were only a baronet insteadof a baron. Thus she argued to herself, and wrotethe gist of her argument to her aunt. Why wasSarah to go hunting the highways and byways for titledfools, when there was Peter at her very door,—­ayoung man she had known all her life, and one of theoldest families in Devon, and seven thousand acresof land only next week, when he would come of age,and could marry whomever he liked? Though, ofcourse, Sarah must not go against her aunt, who hadpromised to do so much for her, and given her so manybeautiful things, whether young girls ought to wearjewellery or not.

This was the distracted letter which was bringingLady Tintern to Hewelscourt. She had been annoyedwith Sarah for refusing Lord Avonwick, and thoughtit would do the rebellious young lady no harm to returnfor a time to the bosom of her family, and thus missNewmarket, which Sarah particularly desired to attend,since no society function interested her half so muchas racing.

The old lady had not in the least objected to Sarah’sfriendship for young Sir Peter Crewys. Sarah,as John had truly said, was a star with many satellites;and among those satellites Peter did not shine withany remarkable brilliancy, being so obviously an awkwardcountry-bred lad, not at home in the surroundingsto which her friendship had introduced him, and ratherinclined to be surly and quarrelsome than pleasantor agreeable.

Lady Tintern had not taken such a boy’s attentionsto her grand-niece seriously; but if Sarah were takingthem seriously, she thought she had better inquireinto the matter at once. Therefore the energeticold woman not only arrived unexpectedly at Hewelscourtin the middle of luncheon, but routed her niece offher sofa early in the afternoon, and proposed thatshe should immediately cross the river and call uponPeter’s mother.

“I have never seen the place except from thesewindows; perhaps I am underrating it,” saidLady Tintern. “I’ve never met LadyMary Crewys, though I know all the Setouns that everwere born. Never mind who ought to call on mefirst! What do I care for such nonsense?The boy is a cub and a bear—­thatI know—­since he stayed in my house for afortnight, and never spoke to me if he could possibly

help it. He is a nobody! Sir Peter Fiddlesticks!Who ever heard of him or his family, I should liketo know, outside this ridiculous place? His nameis spelt wrong! Of course I have heard of Crewys,K.C. Everybody has heard of him. That hasnothing to do with it. Yes, I know the young mandid well in South Africa. All our young men didwell in South Africa. Pray, is Sarah to marrythem all? If that is what she is after,the sooner I take it in hand the better. Lunchingby herself on the moors indeed! No; I am notat all afraid of the ferry, Emily. If you are,I will go alone, or take your good man.”

“The colonel is out shooting, as you know, andwon’t be back till tea-time,” said Mrs.Hewel, becoming more and more flurried under thistorrent of lively scolding.

“The colonel! Why don’t you say Tom?Colonel indeed!” said Lady Tintern. “Verywell, I shall go alone.”

But this Mrs. Hewel would by no means allow.She reluctantly abandoned the effort to dissuade heraunt, put on her visiting things with as much speedas was possible to her, and finally accompanied heracross the river to pay the proposed visit to BarracombeHouse.

Lady Mary received her visitors in the banquetinghall, an apartment which excited Lady Tintern’swarmest approval. The old lady dated the oakcarving in the hall, and in the yet more ancient library;named the artists of the various pictures; criticizedthe ceilings, and praised the windows.

Mrs. Hewel feared her outspokenness would offend LadyMary, but she could perceive only pleasure and amusem*ntin the face of her hostess, between whom and the worldlyold woman there sprang up a friendliness that wasalmost instantaneous.

“And you are like a Cosway miniature yourself,my dear,” said Lady Tintern, peering out ofher dark eyes at Lady Mary’s delicate whiteface. “Eh—­the bright colouringmust be a little faded—­all the Setounshave pretty complexions—­and carmine is aperishable tint, as we all know.”

“Sarah has a brilliant complexion,” struckin Mrs. Hewel, zealously endeavouring to distracther aunt from the personalities in which she preferredto indulge.

“Sarah looks like a milkmaid, my love,”said the old lady, who did not choose to be interrupted,“And when she can hunt as much as she wishes,and live the outdoor life she prefers, she will getthe complexion of a boatwoman.” She turnedto Lady Mary with a gracious nod. “Butyou may live out of doors with impunity.Time seems to leave something better than colouringto a few Heaven-blessed women, who manage to escapewrinkles, and hardening, and crossness. I amoften cross, and so are younger folk than I; and yourboy Peter—­though how he comes to be yourboy I don’t know—­is very often crosstoo.”

“You have been very kind to Peter,” saidLady Mary, laughing. “I am sorry you foundhim cross.”

“No; I was not kind to him. I am not particularlyfond of cross people,” said the old lady.“It is Sarah who has been kind,” and shelooked sharply again at Lady Mary.

“I am getting on in years, and very infirm,”said Lady Tintern, “and I must ask you to excuseme if I lean upon a stick; but I should like to takea turn about the garden with you. I hear you havea remarkable view from your terrace.”

Lady Mary offered her arm with pretty solicitude,and guided her aged but perfectly active visitor throughthe drawing-room—­where she stopped to commentfavourably upon the water colours—­to theterrace, where John was sitting in the shade of theilex-tree, absorbed in the London papers.

Lady Mary introduced him as Peter’s guardianand cousin.

“How do you do, Mr. Crewys? Your name isvery familiar to me,” said the old lady.“Though to tell you the truth, Sir Peter looksso much older than his age that I forgot he had aguardian at all.”

“He will only have one for a few days longer,”said John, smiling. “My authority willexpire very shortly.”

“But you are, at any rate, the very man I wantedto see,” said Lady Tintern, who seldom wastedtime in preliminaries. “I would alwaysrather talk business with a man than with a woman;so if Mr. Crewys will lend me his arm to supplementmy stick, I will take a turn with him instead of withyou, my dear, if you have no objection.”

“Did you ever hear anything like her?”said poor Mrs. Hewel, turning to Lady Mary as soonas her aunt was out of hearing. “What Mr.Crewys must think of her, I cannot guess. Shealways says she had to exercise so much reticenceas an ambassadress, that she has given her tongue aholiday ever since. But there is only one possiblesubject they can have to talk about. Andhow can we be sure her interference won’t spoileverything? She is quite capable of asking whatPeter’s intentions are. She is the mostindiscreet person in the world,” said Sarah’smother, wringing her hands.

“I think Peter has made his intentionspretty obvious,” said Lady Mary. She smiled,but her eyes were anxious.

“And you are sure you don’t mind, dearLady Mary? For who can depend on Lady Tintern,after all? She is supposed to be going to do somuch for Sarah, but if she takes it into her headto oppose the marriage, I can do nothing with her.I never could.”

“I am very far from minding,” said LadyMary. “But it is Sarah on whom everythingdepends. What does she say, I wonder? Whatdoes she want?”

“It’s no use asking me what Sarahwants,” said Mrs. Hewel, plaintively. “Timeafter time I have told her father what would comeof it all if he spoilt her so outrageously. Heis ready enough to find fault with the boys, poorfellows, who never do anything wrong; but he alwaysthinks Sarah perfection, and nothing else.”

“Sarah is very fortunate, for Peter has thesame opinion of her.”

“Fortunate! Lady Mary, if I were to tellyou the chances that girl has had—­not butwhat I had far rather she married Peter—­thoughshe might have done that all the same if she had neverleft home in her life.”

“I am not so sure of that,” said Peter’smother.

Lady Tintern’s turn took her no further thanthe fountain garden, where she sank down upon a bench,and graciously requested her escort to occupy thevacant space by her side.

“I started at an unearthly hour this morning,and I am not so young as I was,” she said; “butI am particularly desirous of a good night’srest, and I never can sleep with anything on my mind.So I came over here to talk business. By-the-by,I should have come over here long ago, if any onehad had the sense to give me a hint that I had onlyto cross a muddy stream, in a flat-bottomed boat,in order to see a face like that—­”She nodded towards the terrace.

John’s colour rose slightly. He put thenod and the smile, and the sharp glance of the darkeyes together, and perceived that Lady Tintern haddrawn certain conclusions.

“There is some expression in her face,”said the old lady, musingly, “which makes methink of Marie Stuart’s farewell to France.I don’t know why. I have odd fancies.I believe the Queen of Scots had hazel eyes, whereasthis pretty Lady Mary has the bluest eyes I ever saw—­quiteremarkable eyes.”

“Those blue eyes,” said John, smiling,“have never looked beyond this range of hillssince Lady Mary’s childhood.”

The old lady nodded again. “Eh—­aState prisoner. Yes, yes. She has that kindof look.” Then she turned to John, withmingled slyness and humour, “On va changer toutcela?”

“As you have divined,” he answered, laughingin spite of himself. “Though how you havedivined it passes my poor powers of comprehension.”

Lady Tintern was pleased. She liked tributesto her intelligence as other women enjoy recognitionof their good looks.

“It is very easy, to an observer,” shesaid. “She is frightened at her own happiness.Yes, yes. And that cub of a boy would not makeit easier. By-the-by, I came to talk of the boy.You are his guardian?”

“For a week.”

“What does it signify for how long? Fiveminutes will settle my views. Thank Heaven Idid not come later, or I should have had to talk tohim, instead of to a man of sense. You must haveseen what is going on. What do you think of it?”

“The arrangement suits me so admirably,”said John, smiling, “that I am hardly to berelied upon for an impartial opinion.”

“Will you tell me his circ*mstances?”

John explained them in a few words, and with admirableterseness and lucidity; and she nodded comprehensivelyall the while.

“That’s capital. He can’t makeducks and drakes of it. All tied up on the children.I hope they will have a dozen. It would serveSarah right. Now for my side. Whatever sumthe trustees decide to settle upon Sir Peter’swife, I will put down double that sum as Sarah’sdowry. Our solicitors can fight the rest out betweenthem. The property is much better than I had

been given any reason to suspect. I have no moreto say. They can be married in a month. Thatis settled. I never linger over business.We may shake hands on it.” They did sowith great cordiality. “It is not that Iam overjoyed at the match,” she explained, withgreat frankness. “I think Sarah is a foolto marry a boy. But I have observed she is afool who always knows her own mind. The fanciesof some girls of that age are not worth attendingto.”

“Miss Sarah is a young lady of character,”said John, gravely.

“Ay, she will settle him,” said Lady Tintern.Her small, grim face relaxed into a witchlike smile.

“The lad is a good lad. No one has eversaid a word against him, and he is as steady as oldTime. I believe Miss Sarah’s choice, ifhe is her choice, will be justified,” said John.

“I didn’t think he was a murderer or adrunkard,” said Lady Tintern, cheerfully.Her phraseology was often startling to strangers.“But he is absolutely devoid of—­whatshall I say? Chivalry? Yes, that is it.Few young men have much nowadays, I am told. ButSir Peter has none—­absolutely none.”

“It will come.”

“No, it will not come. It is a qualityyou are born with or without. He was born without.Sarah knows all about it. It won’t hurther; she has the methods of an ox. She goes directto her point, and tramples over everything that standsin her way. If he were less thick-skinned shewould be the death of him; but fortunately he has thehide of a rhinoceros.”

“I think you do them both a great deal lessthan justice,” said John; but he was unableto help laughing.

“Oh, you do, do you? I like to be disagreedwith.” Her voice shook a little. “Youmust make allowances—­for an old woman—­whois—­disappointed,” said Lady Tintern.

John said nothing, but his bright hazel eyes, lookingdown on the small, bent figure, grew suddenly gentleand sympathetic.

“It is a pleasure to be able to congratulatesomebody,” she said, returning his look.“I congratulate you—­and LadyMary.”

“Thank you.”

“Most of all, because there is nothing modernabout her. She has walked straight out of theMiddle Ages, with the face of a saint and a dreamerand a beautiful woman, all in one. I am an oldwitch, and I am never deceived in a woman. Men,I am sorry to say, no longer take the trouble to deceiveme. Now our business is over, will you take meback?”

She took the arm he offered, and tottered back tothe terrace.

“Bring her to see me in London, and bring heras soon as you can,” said. Lady Tintern.“She is the friend I have dreamed of, and nevermet. When is it going to be?”

“At once,” said John, calmly.

“You are the most sensible man I have seen fora long time,” said Lady Tintern.

* * * * *

Peter and Sarah hardly exchanged a word during theirreturn journey from the moors after the unlucky picnic;and at the door of Happy Jack’s cottage in Youlestonevillage she commanded her obedient swain to depositthe luncheon basket, and bade him farewell.

The aged road-mender, to his intense surprise andchagrin, had one morning found himself unable to risefrom his bed. He lay there for a week, indignantwith Providence for thus wasting his time.

“There bain’t nart the matter wi’I! Then why be I a-farced to lie thic way?”he said faintly. “If zo be I wor bod, Icude understand, but I bain’t bod. Therebain’t no pain tu speak on no-wheres. Itvair beats my yunderstanding.”

“Tis old age be the matter wi’ yu, vather,”said his mate, a young fellow of sixty or so, wholodged with him.

“I bain’t nigh so yold as zum,”said Happy Jack, peevishly. “Tis a niceway vor a man tu be tuke, wi’out a thing thematter wi’ un, vor the doctor tu lay yold on.”

Dr. Blundell soothed him by giving his illness a name.

“It’s Anno Domini, Jack.”

“What be that? I niver yeard till on’tbefar,” he said suspiciously.

“It’s incurable, Jack,” said thedoctor, gravely.

Happy Jack was consoled. He rolled out the wordwith relish to his next visitor.

“Him’s vound it out at last. ’Tisthe anny-dominy, and ’tis incurable. You’mcan’t du nart vor I. I got tu go; and ‘taintno wonder, wi’ zuch a complaint as I du liehere wi’. The doctor were vair beat at vust;but him worried it out wi’ hisself tu the last.Him’s a turble gude doctor, var arl he wuden’tgo tu the war.”

Sarah visited him every day. He was so frailand withered a little object that it seemed as thoughhe could waste no further, and yet he dwindled daily.But he suffered no pain, and his wits were bright tothe end.

This evening the faint whistle of his voice was fainterthan ever, and she had to bend very low to catch hisgasping words. He lay propped up on the pillows,with a red scarf tied round the withered scrag of histhroat, and his spotless bed freshly arrayed by hismate’s mother, who lived with them and “didfor” both.

“They du zay as Master Peter be cartingof ’ee, Miss Zairy,” he whispered.“Be it tru?”

“Yes, Jack dear, it’s true. Are youglad?”

“I be glad if yu thinks yu’ll git ’un,”wheezed poor Jack. “’Twude be a turblegude job var ’ee tu git a yusband. But doan’t’ee make tu shar on ’un, Miss Zairy.’Un du zay as him be turble vond on yu, andas yu du be playing vast and loose wi’ he.That’s the ways a young maid du go on, and zothe young man du slip thru’ ’un’svingers.”

“Yes, Jack,” said Sarah, with unwontedmeekness.

She looked round the little unceiled room, open onone side to the wooden staircase which led to thekitchen below; at the earth-stained corduroys hangingon a peg; at the brown mug which held Happy Jack’slast meal, and all he cared to take—­a thingruel.

“‘Twude be a grand marriage vor the likeso’ yu, Miss Zairy, vor the Crewys du be theyoldest vambly in all Devonsheer, as I’ve yeardtell; and yure volk bain’t never comed yearat arl befar yure grandvather’s time. Eh,what a tale there were tu tell when old Sir Timothymarried Mary Ann! ’Twas a vine scandalvor the volk, zo ’twere; but I wuden’tniver give in tu leaving Youlestone. But doan’t‘ee play the vule wi’ Master Peter, MissZairy. Take ’un while yu can git ’un,will ’ee? And be glad tu git ’un.Yu listen tu I, vor I be a turble witty man, and Ibe giving of yu gude advice, Miss Zairy.”

“I am listening, Jack, and you know I alwaystake your advice.”

“Ah! if ‘twerent’ for the anny-dominy,I’d be tu yure wedding,” sighed HappyJack, “zame as I were tu Mary Ann’s.Zo I wude.”

She took his knotted hand, discoloured with the labourof eighty years, and bade him farewell.

“Thee be a lucky maid,” said Happy Jack,closing his eyes.

* * * * *

The tears were yet glistening on Sarah’s longlashes, when she met the doctor on his way to thecottage she had just quitted.

She was in no mood for talking, and would have passedhim with a hasty greeting, but the melancholy andfatigue of his bearing struck her quick perceptions.

She stopped short, and held out her hand impulsively.

“Dr. Blunderbuss,” said Sarah, “didyou very much want Peter to find out that—­thathe could live without his mother?”

“Has anything happened?” said the doctor;his thin face lighted up instantly with eager interestand anxiety.

“Only that” said Sarah. “Youtrusted me, so I’m trusting you. Peter’sfound out everything. And—­and he isn’tgoing to let her sacrifice her happiness to him, afterall. I’ll answer for that. So perhaps,now, you won’t say you’re sorry you toldme?”

“For God’s sake, don’t jest withme, my child!” said the doctor, putting a tremblinghand on her arm. “Is anything—­settled?”

“Do I ever jest when people are in earnest?And how can I tell you if it’s settled?”said Sarah, in a tone between laughing and weeping.“I—­I’m going there to-night.I oughtn’t to have said anything about it, onlyI knew how much you wanted her to be happy. And—­she’sgoing to be—­that’s all.”

The doctor was silent for a. moment, and Sarah lookedaway from him, though she was conscious that he wasgazing fixedly at her face. But she did not knowthat he saw neither her blushing cheeks, nor the groupsof tall fern on the red earth-bank beyond her, northe whitewashed cob walls of Happy Jack’s cottage.His dreaming eyes saw only Lady Mary in her whitegown, weeping and agitated, stumbling over the thresholdof a darkened room into the arms of John Crewys.

“You said you wished it,” said Sarah.

She stole a hasty glance at him, half frightened byhis silence and his pallor, remembering suddenly howlittle the fulfilment of his wishes could have todo with his personal happiness.

The doctor recovered himself. “I wish itwith all my heart,” he said. He tried tosmile. “Some day, if you will, you shalltell me how you managed it. But perhaps—­notjust now.”

“Can’t you guess?” she said, openingher eyes in a wonder stronger than discretion.

How was it possible, she thought, that such a cleverman should be so dull?

The doctor shook his head. “You were alwaystoo quick for me, little Sarah,” he said.“I am only glad, however it happened, that—­she—­isto be happy at last.” He had no thoughtsto spare for Sarah, or any other. As she lingeredhe said absently, “Is that all?”

She looked at him, and was inspired to leave the remorsefuland sympathetic words that rushed to her lips unsaid.

“That is all,” said Sarah, gently, “forthe present.”

Then she left him alone, and took her way down tothe ferry.

CHAPTER XXI

“The very last of the roses,” said LadyMary.

She looked round the banqueting hall. The waxcandles shed a radiance upon their immediate surroundings,which accentuated the shadows of each unlighted corner.Bowls of roses, red and white and golden, bloomeddelicately in every recess against the black oak ofthe panels.

The flames were leaping on the hearth about a freshlog thrown into the red-hot wood-ash. The twoold sisters sat almost in the chimney corner, sideby side, where they could exchange their confidencesunheard.

Lady Belstone still mourned her admiral in black silkand crepe, whilst Miss Georgina’s respectfor her brother’s memory was made manifest inplum-coloured satin.

Lady Mary, too, wore black to-night. Since theday of Peter’s return she had not ventured todon her favourite white. Her gown was of velvet;her fair neck and arms shone through the yellowingfolds of an old lace scarf which veiled the bosom.A string of pearls was twisted in her soft, brownhair, lending a dim crown to her exquisite and graciousbeauty in the tender light of the wax candles.

Candlelight is kind to the victims of relentless time;disdaining to notice the little lines and shadowscare has painted on tired faces; restoring delicacyto faded complexions, and brightness to sad eyes.

The faint illumination was less kind to Sarah, inher white gown and blue ribbons. The beautifulcolour, which could face the morning sunbeams triumphantlyin its young transparency, was almost too high inthe warmth of the shadowy hall, where her golden-redhair made a glory of its own.

The October evening seemed chilly to the aged sisters,and even Lady Mary felt the comfort of her velvetgown; but Sarah was impatient of the heat of the logfire, and longed for the open air. She enviedPeter and John, who were reported to be smoking outsideon the terrace.

“The very last of the roses,” said LadyMary.

“There will be a sharp frost to-night; theywon’t stand that,” said Sarah, shakingher head.

“The poor roses of autumn,” said LadyMary, rather dreamily, “they are never so sweetas the roses of June.”

“But they are much rarer, and more precious,”said Sarah.

Lady Mary looked at her and smiled. How quicklySarah always understood!

Sarah caught her hand and kissed it impulsively.Her back was turned to the old sisters in the chimneycorner.

“Lady Mary,” she said, “oh, nevermind if I am indiscreet; you know I am always that.”A little sob escaped her. “But I mustask you this one thing—­you—­youdidn’t really think that of me, did you?”

“Think what, dear child?” said Lady Mary,bewildered.

Sarah looked round at the two old ladies.

The head of Miss Crewys was inclined towards the crochetshe held in her lap. She slumbered peacefully.

Lady Belstone was absently gazing into the heart ofthe great fire. The heat did not appear to causeher inconvenience. She was nodding.

“They will hear nothing,” said Lady Mary,softly. “Tell me, Sarah, what you mean.I would ask you,” she said, with a little smileand flush, “to tell me something else, only,I—­too—­am afraid of being indiscreet.”

“There is nothing I would not tell you,”murmured Sarah, “though I believe I would rathertell you—­out in the dark—­thanhere,” she laughed nervously.

“The drawing-room is not lighted, except bythe moon,” said Lady Mary, also a little excitedby the thought of what Sarah might, perhaps, be goingto say; “but there is no fire there, I am afraid.The aunts do not like sitting there in the evening.But if you would not be too cold, in that thin, whitegown—?”

“I am never cold,” said Sarah; “Itake too much exercise, I suppose, to feel the cold.”

“Then come,” said Lady Mary.

They stole past the sleeping sisters into the drawing-room,and closed the communicating door as noiselessly aspossible.

Here only the moonlight reigned, pouring in throughthe uncurtained windows and rendering the gay, rose-colouredroom, with its pretty contents, perfectly weird andunfamiliar.

Sarah flung her warm, young arms about her earliestand most beloved friend, and rested her bright headagainst the gentle bosom.

“You never thought I meant all the horrid, cruelthings I made Peter say to you? You never believedit of me, did you? That I wouldn’t marryhim unless you went away. You whom I lovebest in the world, and always have,” she saiddefiantly, “or that I would ever alter a singlecorner of this dear old house, which used to be sohideous, and which you have made so beautiful?”

“Sarah! My—­my darling!”said Lady Mary, in frightened, trembling tones.

“You needn’t blame Peter for saying anyof it,” said Sarah, “for it was I whoput the words into his mouth. It made him miserableto say them; but he could not help himself. Hewasn’t really quite responsible for his actions.He isn’t now. When people are—­arein love, I’ve often noticed they’re notresponsible.”

“But why—­”

“I only wanted to show him what a goose he reallywas,” murmured Sarah, hanging her head.“He came back so pompous and superior; talkingabout his father’s place, and being the onlyman in the house, and obliged to look after you all;and it was all so ridiculous, and so out of date.I didn’t mean to hurt you except justfor a moment, because it could not be helped,”said Sarah. She hid her face in Lady Mary’sneck, half laughing and half crying. “Iwas so afraid you—­you were taking him seriously;and—­and he was so selfish, wanting to keepyou all to himself.”

“Oh, Sarah, hush!” Lady Mary cried.

She divined it all in a flash, in the twinkling ofan eye. It was to Sarah that she owed the painand mortification, not to her boy.

Sarah had said Peter was not responsible.

Was he only a puppet in the hands of the girl he loved?Could John ever have been thus blindly led and influenced?Her wounded heart said quickly that John was of adifferent, nobler, stronger nature. But the mother’sinstinct leapt to defend her son, and cried also thatJohn was a man, and Peter but a boy in love, readyto sacrifice the whole world to her he worshipped.His father would never have done that. Lady Marywas even capable of an unreasoning pride in Peter’spower of loving; though it was not her—­alas!it never had been her—­for whom her boywas willing to make the smallest sacrifice.

But he had honestly meant to devote himself to hismother, according to his lights, had Sarah’sinfluence not come in the way. Sarah, who musthave divined her secret all the while, and who, withthe dauntlessness of youth, had not hesitated to forceopen the door into a world so bright that Lady Maryalmost feared to enter it, but trembled, as it were,upon the threshold of her own happiness—­andPeter’s.

They were silent, holding each other in a close embrace,both conscious of the passing and repassing footstepsupon the gravel path without.

Sarah was the first to recover herself. She putLady Mary into her favourite chair, and came and kneltby her side.

“That’s over, and I’m forgiven,”she said softly.

“You will make my boy—­happy?”whispered Lady Mary.

“I can’t tell whether he will be happyor not, if—­if he marries me,” saidSarah. She appeared to smother a laugh. “ButAunt Elizabeth seems reconciled to the idea.I think you bewitched her this afternoon. Sheis in love with you, and with this house, and withMr. John. But more particularly with you.When I said I had refused Peter over and over again,she said I was a fool. But she says that whateverI do. I—­I suppose I let her think,”said Sarah, leaning her head against Lady Mary’sknee, “that some day—­if heis still idiotic enough to wish it—­andif you don’t mind—­”

“My pretty Sarah—­my darling!”

“I’m sure it’s only because he’syour son,” said Sarah, vehemently; “I’vealways wanted to be your child. What’s theuse of pretending I haven’t? Think whata time poor mamma used to give me, and what an angelof goodness you were to the poor little black sheepwho loved you so.”

Sarah’s white dress, shining in the moonlight,caught the attention of John Crewys, through the openwindow. He paused in his walk outside. Peter’svoice uttered something, and the two dark figures passedslowly on.

“They won’t interrupt us,” saidSarah, serenely. “I told Peter at dinnerthat I wanted to talk to you, and that he was to goand smoke with Mr. John, and behave as if nothinghad happened. He said he hadn’t spokento him since this morning. He is all agog to knowwhat Lady Tintern came for. But he won’tdare to come and interrupt.”

“What have you done to my boy,” said LadyMary, half laughing and half indignant, “thatyour lightest word is to be his law? And oh,Sarah”—­her tone grew wistful—­“itis strange—­even though he loves you, thatyou should understand him better than I, who wouldlay down my life for him.”

“It’s very easy to see why,” saidSarah, calmly. The deep contralto music of hervoice contrasted oddly with her matter-of-fact mannerand words. “It’s just that Peterand I are made of common clay, and that you are not.So, of course, we understand each other. I don’tmean to say that we don’t quarrel pretty often.I dare say we always shall. I am good-tempered,but I like my own way; and, besides”—­shespoke quite cheerfully—­“anybody wouldquarrel with Peter. But you and he are a littlelike Aunt Elizabeth and me. She wants me tobehave like a grande dame, and to know exactlywho everybody is, and treat them accordingly, andbe never too much interested in anything, but neverbored; and always look beautiful, and, above all, appropriate.And I—­would rather be taking thedogs for a run on the moors, in a short skirt andbig boots; or up at four in the morning otter-hunting;or out with the hounds; or—­or—­diggingin the garden, for that matter;—­than bethe prettiest girl in London, and going to a Stateball or the opera. You see, I’ve tried bothkinds of life now, and I know which I like best.And—­and flirting with people is pleasantenough in its way, but it gives you a kind of sickfeeling afterwards, which hunting never does.I don’t think I’m really much of a handat sentiment,” said Sarah, with great truth.

“And Peter?” asked Lady Mary, gently.

“You wanted Peter to be a—­a noblekind of person, a great statesman, or something ofthat sort, didn’t you?” Her soft lips caressedLady Mary’s hand apologetically. “Tobe fond of reading and poetry, and all sorts of things;and he wanted to shoot rabbits and go fishing.But, of course, he couldn’t help knowingyou wanted him to be something he wasn’t, andnever could be, and didn’t want to be.”

“Oh, Sarah!” said poor Lady Mary.“But—­yes, it is true what you aresaying.”

“It’s true, though I say it so badly;and I know it, because, as I tell you, Peter and Iare just the same sort at heart. I’ve beenteasing him, pretending to be a worldling, but foreigntravel and entertaining in London are just about asunsuited to me as to Peter. I—­I’mglad”—­she uttered a quick, littlesob—­“that I—­I played mypart well while it all lasted; but you know it wasn’tso much me as my looks that did it. And becauseI didn’t care, I was blunt and natural, andthey thought it chic. But it wasn’tchic; it was that I really didn’tcare. And I don’t think I’ve everquite succeeded in taking Peter in either; for hecouldn’t believe I could really thinkany sort of life worth living but the dear old lifedown here, which he and I love best in the world,in our heart of hearts.”

The twinkling, frosty blue points of starlight glitteredin the cloudless vault of heaven, above the moonlitstillness of the valley. The clear-cut shadowsof the balcony and the stone urns fell across thecold paths and whitened grass of the terrace.

Ghostlike, Sarah’s white form emerged from thedarkness of the room, and stood on the threshold ofthe window.

John threw away the end of his cigar, and smiled.“I presume the interview we were not to interruptis over?” he said, good-humouredly. “Surelyit is not very prudent of Miss Sarah to venture out-of-doorsin that thin gown; or has she a cloak of some kind—­”

But Peter was not listening to him.

Sarah, wrapped in her white cloak and hood, had alreadyflitted across the moonlit terrace, into the deepshadow of the ilex grove; and the boy was by her sidebefore John could reach the window she had just quitted.

“Oh, is it you, Peter?” said Miss Sarah,looking over her shoulder. “I was lookingfor you. I have put on my things. It is gettinglate, and I thought you would see me home.”

“Must you go already?” cried Peter.“Have they sent to fetch you?”

“I dare say I could stay a few moments,”said Sarah; “but, of course, my maid came agesago, as usual. But if there was anything youparticularly wanted to say—­you know howtiresome she is, keeping as close as she can, to listento every word—­why, it would be better tosay it now. I am not in such a hurry as all that.”

“You know very well I want to say a thousandthings,” said Peter, vehemently. “Ihave been walking up and down till I thought I shouldgo mad, making conversation with John Crewys.”Peter was honestly unaware that it was John who hadmade the conversation. “Has Lady Tinterncome to take you away, Sarah? And why did shecall on my mother this afternoon, the very momentshe arrived?”

“Your mother would be the proper person to tellyou that. How should I know?” said Sarah,reprovingly. “Have you asked her?”

“How can I ask her?” said Peter.His voice trembled. “I’ve not spokento her once—­except before other people—­sinceJohn Crewys told me—­what I told you thisafternoon. I’ve scarcely seen any one sinceI left you. I wandered off for a beastly walkin the woods by myself, as miserable as any fellowwould be, after all you said to me. Do you thinkI—­I’ve got no feelings?”

His voice sounded very forlorn, and Sarah felt remorseful.After all, Peter was her comrade and her oldest friend,as well as her lover. At the very bottom of herheart there lurked a remnant of her childish admirationfor him, which would, perhaps, never quite be extinguished.The boy who got into scrapes, and was thrashed by hisfather, and who did not mind; the boy who vaultedover fences she had to climb or creep through; whowent fishing, and threw a fly with so light and surea hand, and filled his basket, whilst she wound herline about her skirts, and caught her hook, and whippedthe stream in vain. He had climbed a tall fir-treeonce, and brought down in safety a weeping, shame-strickenlittle girl with a red pigtail, whose daring had suddenlyfailed her; and he had gone up the tree himself likea squirrel afterwards, and fetched her the nest shecoveted. Nor did he ever taunt her with her cowardicenor revert to his own exploit; but this was becausePeter forgot the whole adventure in an hour, thoughSarah remembered it to the end of her life. Heclimbed so many trees, and went birds’-nestingevery spring to his mother’s despair.

Sarah thought of him wandering all the afternoon inhis own woods, lonely and mortified, listening tothe popping of the guns on the opposite side of thehill, which echoed through the valley; she knew whatthose sounds meant to Peter—­the boy whohad shot so straight and true, and who would nevershoulder a gun any more.

“I don’t see why you should be so miserable,”she said, as lightly as she could; but there weretears in her eyes, she was so sorry for Peter.

“I dare say you don’t,” said Peter,bitterly. “Nobody has ever made a foolof you, no doubt. A wretched, self-confident fool,who gave you his whole heart to trample in the dust.I suppose I ought to have known you were only—­playingwith me—­as you said—­a wretchedobject as I am now, but—­”

“An object!” cried Sarah, so anxious tostem the tide of his reproaches that she scarce knewwhat she was saying, “which appeals to the softside of every woman’s heart, high or low, richor poor, civilized or savage—­a woundedsoldier.”

“Do you think I want to be pitied?” saidPeter, glowering.

“Pitied!” said Sarah, softly. “Doyou call this pity?” She leant forward and kissedhis empty sleeve.

Peter trembled at her touch.

“It is—­because you are sorry forme,” he said hoarsely.

“Sorry!” said Sarah, scornfully; “Iglory in it.” Then she suddenly began tocry. “I am a wicked girl,” she sobbed,“and you were a fool, if you ever thoughtI could be happy anywhere but in this stupid old valley,or with—­with any one but you. And Iam rightly punished if my—­my behaviourhas made you change your mind. Because I didmean, just at first, to throw you over, and to—­togo away from you, Peter. But—­but thearm that wasn’t there—­held me fast.”

“Sarah!”

She hid her face against his shoulder.

* * * * *

John Crewys was playing softly on the little oak pianoin the banqueting hall, and Lady Mary stood beforethe open hearth, absently watching the sparks flyupward from the burning logs, and listening.

The old sisters had gone to bed.

Sarah’s bright face, framed in her white hood,fresh and rosy from the cold breath of the Octobernight, appeared in the doorway.

“Peter is in there—­waiting for you,”she whispered, blushing.

John Crewys rose from the piano, and came forwardand held out his hand to Sarah, with a smile.

Lady Mary hurried past them into the unlighted drawing-room.Her eyes, dazzled by the sudden change, could distinguishnothing for a moment.

But Peter was there, waiting, and perhaps Lady Marywas thankful for the darkness, which hid her facefrom her son.

“Peter!”

“Mother!”

She clung to her boy, and a kiss passed between themwhich said all that was in their hearts that night—­ofappeal—­of understanding—­of forgiveness—­ofthe love of mother and son.

And no foolish words of explanation were ever utteredto mar the gracious memory of that sacred reconciliation.

THE END