"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 than poison, brother," saidLady Belstone, in warning tones; "it has stood so long."
"Perhaps dear Mary intends to order fresh tea, Isabella," said MissCrewys.
"It hasn't stood soverylong," said Lady Mary, looking appealingly at Sir Timothy; "and you know Ash is always cross if we order fresh 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 came down."
"My dear Mary," said Sir Timothy, "will you never learn to be punctual? No; I will take it as it is. Poor Ash has enough to do, as Georgina truly says."
Lady Mary sighed rather impatiently, and it occurred to John Crewys that Sir Timothy spoke to his wife exactly as he might have addressed a troublesome child. His tone was gentler than usual, but this John did not know.
"I should have liked to take a turn about the grounds with you," said Sir Timothy to his cousin, "if it had been possible; but I am afraid it is getting too dark now."
"Surely there will be time enough to-morrow morning for that, brother," said Lady Belstone.
Sir Timothy had walked to the oriel window, but he turned away as he answered her.
"I may be otherwise occupied to-morrow."
"But I hope the opportunity may arise before very long," said John, cheerfully. "I should like to explore these woods."
"You will have to come withme, then," said Lady Mary, smiling. "Timothy hates walking uphill, and I should love to show our beautiful views to a stranger."
"I do not like you to tire yourself, my dear," said Sir Timothy.
"A walk through Barracombe woods means simply a climb, Mary," saidLady Belstone; "and you are not strong."
"I am perfectly robust, Isabella. Do allow me at least the use of my limbs," said Lady Mary, impatiently.
"No woman, certainly nolady, can be calledrobust," said MissCrewys, severely.
The sudden clanging of a bell changed the conversation.
"Visitors. How tiresome!" said Lady Mary.
"My dear Mary!" said Sir Timothy.
"But I know it can't be anybody pleasant, Timothy," said his wife, with rather a mischievous twinkle, "for I owe calls to all the nice people, and it's only the dull ones who come over and over again."
"Youowecalls, Mary!" said Lady Belstone, in horrified tones.
"I am afraid," said Miss Crewys, considerately lowering her voice as the butler and footman crossed the hall to the outer vestibule, "that dear Mary is more than a little remiss in civility to her neighbours."
"My dear admiral never permitted me to postpone returning a call for more than a week. Royalty, he always said, the same day; ordinary people within a week," said Lady Belstone.
"When royalty calls I certainly will return the visit the same day," said Lady Mary, petulantly. "But I cannot spend my whole life driving along the high-roads from one house to another. I hate driving, as you know, Isabella."
"What did Providence create carriages for but to be driven in?" saidLady Belstone.
"You will give John a wrong impression of our worthy neighbours, Mary," said Sir Timothy, pompously. "Personally, I am always glad to see them."
"But you don't have to return their calls, Timothy," said Lady Mary.
The canon inadvertently laughed. Sir Timothy looked annoyed. MissCrewys whispered to Lady Belstone, unheard save by the doctor—
"How very odd and flippant poor Mary is to-night—worse than usual!What can it be?"
"It is just the presence of a strange gentleman that is upsetting her, poor thing," said her sister, in the same whisper. "Her head is easily turned. We had better take no notice."
The doctor muttered something emphatic beneath his breath.
"Mrs. and Miss Hewel," said Ash, advancing into the hall.
"Is it only you and Sarah, after all? What a relief! I thought it was visitors," cried Lady Mary, coming forward to greet them very kindly and warmly. "Did you come across in the ferry?"
"No, indeed. You know how I dislike the ferry. I have the long drive home still before me. But we were so close to Barracombe, at the Gilberts' tea-party. I thought we should be certain to meet you there," said Mrs. Hewel, in rather reproachful tones. "Sarah, of course, wanted to go back in the ferry, but I am always doubly frightened at night—and in one's best clothes. It was quite a large party."
"I'm afraid I forgot all about it," said Lady Mary, with a conscience-stricken glance at 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—so very long since I've seen you—and all this happening at once," said Mrs. Hewel. She was a large, stout woman, with breathless manner and plaintive voice. "And I wanted to show you Sarah in her first grown-up clothes, and tell you abouthertoo," she added.
"Bless me!" said Sir Timothy. "You don't mean to say little Sarah is grown up."
"Oh yes, dear Sir Timothy; she grew up the day before yesterday," saidMrs. 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's partly what I came about. After the trouble she's been all her life to me, and all—just going to that excellent school in Germany—here's my aunt wanting to adopt her, or as good as adopt her—Lady Tintern, you know."
Everybody who knew Mrs. Hewel knew also that Lady Tintern was her aunt; and Lady Tintern was a very great lady indeed.
"She is to come out this very season; that is why I took her to the Gilberts', to prepare her for the great plunge," said Mrs. Hewel, not intending to be funny. "It will be a change for Sarah, such a hoyden as she has always been. But my aunt won't wait once she has got a fancy into her head; though the child is only seventeen."
"At seventeenIwas 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 her hostess, and was holding one of the soft white hands in her plump gloved fingers.
Sarah Hewel's adoration for Lady Mary dated from the days when she had been ferried over the Youle with her nurse, to play with Peter, in his chubby childhood. Peter had often been cross and always tyrannical, but it was so wonderful to find a playmate who was naughtier than herself, that Sarah had secretly admired Peter. She was the black sheep of her own family, and in continual disgrace for lesser crimes than he daily committed with impunity. But her admiration of Peter was tame and pale beside her admiration of Lady Mary. A mother who never scolded, who told no tales, who petted black sheep when they were bruised and torn or stained entirely through their own wickedness, who could always be depended on for kisses and bonbons and fairy-tales, seemed more angelic than human to poor little Sarah; whose own mother was wrapt up in her two irreproachable sons, and had small affection to spare for an ugly, tiresome little girl.
Sarah, however, had slowly but surely struggled out of the ugliness of her childhood; and John Crewys, regarding her critically in the lamplight, decided she would develop, one of these days, into a very handsome young woman; in spite of an ungainly stoop, a wide mouth that pouted rather too much, and a nose that inclined saucily upwards.
Her colouring was fresh, even brilliant—the bright rose, and creamy tint that sometimes accompanies vivid red hair—and of a vivid, uncompromising red were the locks that crowned Miss Sarah's little head, and shaded her blue-veined temples.
Miss Crewys had, in consequence, long ago pronounced her to be a positive fright; and Lady Belstone had declared that such hair would prove an insuperable obstacle to her chances of getting a husband.
"I know she's very young," said Mrs. Hewel, glancing apologetically at her offspring. "But what can I do? There's no going against Lady Tintern; and at seventeen she ought to be something more than a tomboy, after all."
"Youwere married at seventeen, weren't you?" said Sarah to Lady Mary, in her deep, almost tragic voice—a voice that commanded attention, 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—before they're one and twenty. Iknewit was rot," said Sarah, triumphantly.
"Miss Sarah retains the outspokenness of her recently discarded childhood, I perceive," said Sir Timothy, stiffly.
"Sarah!" said her mother, indignantly, "I said not unless they had their parents' consent. I was not thinking of Lady Mary, as you know very well."
"Yourpeople didn't say you were too 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 youhadto do what he told you."
"Oh, Sarah, will you cease chattering?" cried her mother.
"I hope you have good news of your sons in South Africa, Mrs. Hewel," said the canon, briskly advancing to the rescue.
Mrs. Hewel's voice changed. "Thank you, canon; they were all right when we heard last. Tom is in Natal, so I feel happier about him; but Willie, of course, is in the thick of it all—and the news to-day—isn't reassuring."
"But you are proud of them both," said Lady Mary, softly. "Every mother must be proud to have sons able and willing to fight for their country."
"We may feel differently concerning the justice of this war," said Sir Timothy, clearing his throat; and Lady Mary shrugged her shoulders, whilst the canon jumped from his chair, and sat meekly down again on catching the doctor's eye.
"But in our sympathy with our brave soldiers we are all one, Mrs.Hewel."
Sarah sprang forward. "You don't mean to say you'restilla pro-Boer, Sir Timothy?" she exclaimed. "Well, mamma—talking of the justice of the war—when Tom and Willie are risking their lives"—she broke into a sudden sob—"and nowPeter—"
"Peter!" said Lady Mary.
"Oh, I'm sorry," said Sarah, running to her friend. "I didn't mean to hurtyou—talking of the war—and—and the boys—when you must be thinking only of Peter." She wrung her hands together piteously.
"Of Peter!" Lady Mary repeated.
"We only heard to-day," said Mrs. Hewel, "and came in hoping for more details. My cousin George, who is also going out with Lord Ferries, happened to mention in his letter that Peter had joined the corps."
"I think I can explain how the mistake arose," said Sir Timothy, stiffly. "Peter wrote for permission to join, and I refused. My son is fortunately too young to be of any use in a contest I regard with horror."
"But Cousin George was helping Peter to get his kit, because they were to sail at such short notice," cried Sarah.
"Sarah," said her mother, in breathless indignation, "willyou be silent?"
"What does this mean, Timothy?" said Lady Mary, trembling.
She stood by the centre table; and the hanging lamp above shed its light on her brown hair, and flashed in her blue eyes, and from the diamond ring she wore.
The doctor rose from his chair.
"I am at a loss to understand," said Sir Timothy.
"It means," said Sarah, half-hysterically,—"oh, can't you see what it means? It just means that Peter is going to South Africa, whether you like it or not."
"There must be some mistake, of course," said Mrs. Hewel, in distressed tones. "And yet—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. Her face was deathly; her little frail hand grasped the table.
"Sir Timothy," said the canon, "I—I have a communication to make to you."
"On this subject?" said Sir Timothy.
"A letter from Peter."
"Why did you not say so earlier?" said Sir Timothy, harshly.
"I will explain, if you will kindly give me five minutes in the study."
"A letter from Peter," said Lady Mary, "and not—to me."
She looked round at them all with a little vacant smile.
John Crewys, who knew nothing of Peter's letter, had already grasped the situation. He divined also that Lady Mary was fighting piteously against the 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 the doctor, impatiently.
"Peter writes—asking me,—I am sure I don't know why he pitched upon me,—to—break the news to you, that he has joined Lord Ferries' Horse; feeling it his—his duty to his country to do so," said the unhappy canon, folding and unfolding the letter he held, with agitated fingers.
"I knew there would be a satisfactory explanation," said Mrs. Hewel, tearfully. "Dear Lady Mary, having so inadvertently anticipated Peter's letter, there is only one thing left for me to do. I must at least leave you and Sir Timothy in peace to 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, beautiful Lady Mary," she whispered passionately. "Do say you're not angry. I didn't know it would make you so unhappy. It was partly my fault for telling Peter in the holidays that only old men, invalids, and—and cowards—were shirking South Africa. I thought you'd be glad, like me, that Peter should go and fight like all the other boys."
"Sarah," said Dr. Blundell, gently, "don't you 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; and Sarah forgot she had grown up the day before yesterday, and sobbed loudly as she went away.
Lady Mary lifted the miniature from the table, and looked at it without a word; but from the sofa, the two old sisters babbled audibly to each other.
"I always said, Isabella, that if poor Mary spoilt Peter so terribly,somethingwould happen to 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 have volunteered."
John Crewys made an involuntary step forward and placed himself between the sofa and the table, as though to shield Lady Mary from their observation, but he could not prevent their words from reaching her ears.
She whispered to him very softly. "Will you get the letter for me? I want to see—for myself—what—what Peter says."
"Go quietly into the library," said John, bending over her for a moment. "I will bring it you there immediately."
She obeyed him without a word.
John turned to the sofa. "I beg your pardon, canon," he said courteously, "but Lady Mary cannot bear this suspense. Allow me to take her 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, of course, 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 Miss Crewys, decidedly.
"Exactly. I am sure Sir Timothy would not be pleased if—Bless my soul!"
For John, with a slight bow of apology, and his grave air of authority, had quietly taken the letter from the canon's undecided fingers, and walked away with it into the library.
"How very oddly our cousin John behaves!" said Lady Belstone, indignantly. "Almost snatching the letter from your hand."
"Depend upon it, Mary inspired his action," said Miss Crewys, angrily. "I saw her whispering away to him. A man she never set eyes on before."
"Pray arewenot to hear the contents?" said Lady Belstone, quivering with indignation.
"I suppose he thinks Lady Mary should make the communication herself to Sir Timothy," gasped the canon. "I am sure I have no desire to fulfil so unpleasing a task. Still, the matterwasentrusted to me. However, the main substance has been told; there can be no further secret about it. My only care was that Sir Timothy should not be unduly agitated."
"It is a comfort to find thatsome 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 canon would reveal the whole contents of Peter's letter to her more easily in private. "The shock has made me feel quite faint. You, too, Georgina, are looking pale."
"It is not the shock, but the draught, which is affecting me, Isabella,—Sir Timothy thoughtlessly keeping the door open so long. I will accompany you to the drawing-room."
"But Sir Timothy may want me," said the canon, uneasily.
"Bless the man! they've got the letter itself, what can they want withyou?" said her ladyship, vigorously propelling her supporter out of reach of possible interruption. "Close the door behind us, Georgina, I beg, or that odious doctor will be racing after us."
"He takes far too much upon himself. I have no idea of permitting country apothecaries to be so familiar," said Miss Crewys.
Lady Mary, coming from the library with the letter in her hand, met her husband in the hall.
"Timothy!"
She looked at him wistfully. Her face was very pale as she gave him the letter. Sir Timothy took out his glasses, wiped them deliberately, and put them on.
"Never mind reading it. I can tell you in one word," she said, trembling with impatience. "My boy is sailing for South Africa to-morrow morning."
"I prefer," said Sir Timothy, "to read the letter for myself."
"Oh, do be quick!" she said, half under her breath.
But he read it slowly twice, and folded it. He was really thunderstruck. Peter was accustomed to write polite platitudes to his parent, and had presumably not intended that his letter to the canon should be actually read by Sir Timothy, when he had asked that the contents of it should be broken to him.
"Selfish, disobedient, headstrong, deceitful boy!" said Sir Timothy.
Lady Mary started. "How can you talk so!" Her gentle voice sounded almost fierce. "At least he has proved himself a man.' And he is right. It was a shame and a disgrace for him to stay at home, whilst his comrades did their duty. I say it a thousand times, though I am his 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 connivance after all?" said Sir Timothy, suspiciously. He could not follow her rapid changes of mood, and had listened resentfully to her defence of her son.
"Timothy!" said Lady Mary, trembling, "when have I ever been disloyal to you in word or deed?"
"Never, I hope," said Sir Timothy. His voice shook a little. "I do not doubt you for a moment, Mary. But you spoke with such strange vehemence, so unlike your usual propriety of manner."
She broke into a wild laugh which pained and astonished him.
"Did I? I must have forgotten myself for a moment."
"You must, indeed. Pray be calm. I understand that this must be a terrible shock to you."
"It is not a shock," said Lady Mary, defiantly. "I glory in it. I—Iwishhim to go. Oh, Peter, my darling!"
She hid her face in her hands.
"It would be more to the purpose," said Sir Timothy, "to consider what is to be done."
"Could we stop him?" she cried eagerly, and then changed once more."No, no; I wouldn't if I could. He would never forgive me."
"Of course, we cannot stop him," said Sir Timothy. He raised his voice as he was wont when he was angry. Canon Birch, in the drawing-room, heard the loud threatening tones, and was thankful for the door which shut him from Sir Timothy's presence. "He has laid his plans for thwarting my known wishes too well. I do not know what might be said if we stopped him. I—I won't have 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 a Crewys of cowardice, by preventing his departure on active service. We have fought before—in a better cause."
"We won't discuss the cause," said Lady Mary, gently. When Sir Timothy began to shout, she always grew calm. "Then you will not telegraph to my cousin Ferries?"
"Ferries ought to have written tome, and not taken the word of a mere boy, like Peter," stormed Sir Timothy. "But the fact is, I never flattered Ferries as he expected; it is not my way to natter any one; and consequently he took a dislike to me. He must have known what my views are. I am sure he did it on purpose."
"It was natural he should believe Peter, and I don't think he knows you well enough to dislike you," said Lady Mary, simply. "He has only seen you twice, Timothy."
"That was evidently sufficient," said Sir Timothy, meaning to be ironical, and unaware that he was stating a plain fact. "I shall certainly not 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 only listened to him when he implored you to let him go, we could have made his last days at home all they should be. He's been hiding in London, poor Peter; getting his outfit by stealth, ashamed, whilst other boys are beingfêtedand praised by their people, proud of earning so early their right to be considered men. And—and he's only a boy. And he said himself, all's fair in love and war. Indeed, Timothy, it is an exceptional case."
"Mary, your weakness is painful, and your idolatry of Peter will bring its own punishment. The part of his deception that should pain you most is the want of heart he has displayed," said Sir Timothy, bitterly.
"And doesn't it?" she said, with a pathetic smile. "But one oughtn't to 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 proper feeling on proper occasions. His present triumph over my authority involves his departure to certain danger and possible death, without even affording us the opportunity of bidding him farewell. He is ready and willing to leave us thus."
Lady Mary uttered a stifled scream. "But I won't let him. How can you think his mother 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. There are plenty of ways. I can drive to the junction—it's not much further than Brawnton—and catch the midnight express, and get to Southampton by daybreak. I know it can be done. Ash will look out the trains. Why do you look at me like that? You're not going to stop my going, are you? You're not going totryand stop me, are you? 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's sake; when he was such a little boy, and you wanted to punish him—don't you remember?"
"Don't talk so, Mary," said Sir Timothy, almost soothingly. Her vehemence really alarmed and distressed him. "It is not like you 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. Evenyouwould be 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 grow harsh and unloving as they grow older. I try, now and then, to shut my eyes and see him as he once was; but all the time I know that the little boy who used to be Peter has gone away for ever and ever and ever. If he had died when he was little he would always have been my little boy, wouldn't he? But, thank God, he didn't die. He's going to be a great strong man, and a brave soldier, and—and all I've ever wanted him to be—when he's got over these wilful days of boyhood. But he mustn't go without his father's blessing and his mother's kiss."
"He has chosen to do so, Mary," said Sir Timothy, coldly.
She clung to him caressingly. "But you're going 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," repeated Sir Timothy, heavily.
He resented, in a dull, self-pitying fashion, the fact that his wife's thoughts were so exclusively fixed on Peter, in her ignorance of his own more immediate danger.
"Don't think I'm blind to his faults," urged Lady Mary, "only I can laugh at them better than you can, because Iknowall the while that at the very bottom of his heart he's only my baby Peter after all. He's not—God bless him—he'snotthe dreary, cold-blooded, priggish boy he sometimes pretends to be. 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 open window in my room and thanked God because you had a son. Think of that other summer day when we couldn't bear even to look at the roses because little Peter was so ill, and we were afraid he was going back to heaven."
Her soft, rapid words touched Sir Timothy to a vague feeling 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 cloud that was hanging over him.
The sorrow gave way to a keener anxiety. The calmness of mind which the great surgeon had prescribed—the placid courage, largely aided by dulness of imagination, which had enabled poor Sir Timothy to keep in the very background of his thoughts all apprehensions for the morrow—where were they?
He repressed with an effort the emotion which threatened to master him, and forced himself to be calm. When he spoke again his voice sounded not much less measured 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 so warmly 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 always on guard. My feelings broke bounds for once."
"Calm yourself," said Sir Timothy. "And besides, so far as I am concerned, your pleading for Peter is unnecessary."
"You have forgiven him?" she cried joyfully, yet almost incredulously.
He paused, and then said with solemnity: "I have forgiven him, Mary. It is not the moment for me to cherish resentment, least of all against my only son."
"Ah, thank God! Then you will come to Southampton?"
"That is impossible. But I will telegraph my forgiveness and the blessing which he has not sought that he may receive it before the ship sails."
"I am grateful to you for doing even so much as that, Timothy, and for not being angry. Then I must go alone?"
"No, no."
"Understand me," said Lady Mary, in a low voice, "for I am in earnest. I have never deceived you. I will not defy you in secret, like Peter; but Iwillgo and bid my only son God-speed, though the whole world conspired to prevent me.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, "you never even found out what they were."
He did not notice the words; it is doubtful whether he heard them.
"It has been my best endeavour to promote your happiness throughout our married life, Mary, so far as I considered it compatible with your highest welfare. I do not pretend I can enter into the high-flown and romantic feelings engendered by your reprehensible habit of novel-reading."
"You've scolded me so often for that," said Lady Mary, half mockingly, half sadly. "Can't we—keep to the subject in hand, as you said just now?"
"I have a reason, a strong reason," said Sir Timothy, "for wishing you to remain at home to-morrow. I had hoped, by concealing it from you, to spare you some of the painful suspense and anxiety which I am myself experiencing."
Lady Mary laughed.
"How like a man to suppose a woman is spared anything by being kept in the dark! I knew something was wrong. Dr. Blundell and Canon Birch are in your confidence, I presume? They kept exchanging glances like two mysterious owls. Your sisters are not, or they would be sighing and shaking their heads. And John—John Crewys? Oh, he is a lawyer. When does a visitor ever come here except on business? He has something to do with it. Ah, to advise you for nothing over your purchase of the Crown lands! You have got into some difficulty over that, or something of the kind? You brought him down here for some special purpose, 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 knew you quite like this before.I dislike this extraordinary flippancy of tone very much."
"I beg your pardon," said Lady Mary; make allowance for me this once. I learnt ten minutes ago that my boy was going to the war. I must either laugh or—or cry, and you wouldn't like me to do that; but it's a way women have when their hearts are half broken."
"I don't understand you," he said helplessly.
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't torment you any more, Timothy; I will be as calm and collected—as you wish. Only let me go."
"Will you not listen to my reason for wishing you 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 world half so important tomeas seeing my boy once more before he sails?"
The colour of Sir Timothy's ruddy face deepened almost to purple, his grey eyes glowered sullen resentment at his wife.
"Since you desire to have your way in opposition to 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 when Sir 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 things to be packed, Timothy, and tell Ash to go and find out about the trains, and I will return and listen to whatever you wish—I will, indeed. I could not pay proper attention to anything until I knew that was being done."
Sir Timothy did not trust himself to speak. He bowed his head, and the slender figure passed swiftly up the stairs.
Sir Timothy walked twice deliberately up and down the empty hall, and felt his pulse. The slow, steady throb reassured him. He opened the door of the study.
"John," said Sir Timothy, "would you kindly come out here and speak to me for a moment? Dr. Blundell, would you have the goodness to await me a little longer? You will find the London papers there."
"I have them," said Dr. Blundell, from the armchair by the study fire.
John Crewys closed the door behind him, and looked rather anxiously at his cousin. It struck him that 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 the log fire, and made an effort to speak in his voice of everyday. His slightly pompous, patronizing manner returned upon him.
"You are doubtless accustomed, John, in the course of your professional work," he said, "to advise in difficult matters. You come among us a stranger—and unprejudiced. Will you—er—give me the benefit of your opinion?"
"To the best of my ability," said John. He paused, and added gently,"I am sorry for this fresh trouble that has come upon you."
"That is the subject on which I mean to consult you. Do you consider that—that her husband or her child should stand first in a woman's eyes?"
"Her husband, undoubtedly," said John, readily, "but—"
"But what?" said Sir Timothy, impatiently. A gleam of satisfaction had broken over his heavy face 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 eyes at this reply. "In my opinion there are only two ways of looking at every question—the right way and the wrong way."
"My profession teaches me," said John, "that there are as many different points of view as there are parties to a case."
"Then—frommypoint of view," said Sir Timothy, with an air of waving all other points of view away as irrelevant, "since my wife, very naturally, desires to see her son again before he sails, am I justified in allowing her to set off in ignorance of the ordeal that awaits me?"
"Good heavens, no!" cried John. "Should the operation prove unsuccessful, you would be entailing upon her a lifelong remorse."
"I did not look upon it in that light," said Sir Timothy, rather stiffly. "The propriety or the impropriety of her going remains in any, case the same, whether the operation succeeds or fails. I feared that it would be the wrong thing to allow her to go at all; that it might cause comment were she absent from my side at such a critical juncture."
"I see," said John. His mobile, expressive face and bright hazel eyes seemed to light up for one instant with scorn and wonder; then he recollected himself. "It is natural you should wish for her sustaining presence, no doubt," he said.
"I trust you do not suppose that I should be selfishly considering my own personal feelings at such a time," said Sir Timothy, in a lofty tone of reproof. "I am only desirous of doing what is right in the matter. I am asking your advice because I feel that my self-command has been shaken considerably by this unexpected blow. I am less sure of my judgment than usual in consequence. However, if you think my wife ought to be told"—John nodded very decidedly—"let her be told. I am bound to say Dr. Blundell thought so too, though his opinion is neither here nor there in such a matter, but so long as you understand that my only desire is that both she and I should do what is most correct and proper." He came closer to John. "It is of vital importance for me to preserve my composure," said Sir Timothy. "I am not fitted for—for any kind of scene just now. Will you undertake for me the task of explaining to—to my dear wife the situation in which I am placed?"
"I will do my best," said John. He was touched by the note of piteous anxiety which had crept into the squire's harsh voice.
"Thank you," said Sir Timothy. "Will you await her here? She is returning immediately. Break it to her as gently as you can. I shall rest and compose myself by a talk with Dr. Blundell."
He went slowly to the study, leaving John Crewys alone.
"Is that you, Cousin John?" said Lady Mary. "Is Sir Timothy gone? I have not 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 that her soft, brown hair were not strained so tightly from 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's wife. The stiff, grey poplin fitted like a glove the pretty curves of Lady Mary's slender figure, but it lacked distinction, and appropriateness, to John's fastidious eye. Then he reproached himself vehemently for allowing his thoughts to dwell on such trifles at such a moment.
"Will you forgive me for going away the very day you come?" said LadyMary.
How quickly, how surprisingly, she recovered her spirits! She had looked so weary and sad as she came down the stairs an hour ago. Now she was almost gay. A feverish and unnatural gaiety, no doubt; but those flushed cheeks, and glittering blue eyes—how they restored the youthful loveliness of the face he 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? You were an only son too. And your mother would have gone to the ends of the earth to look upon your face once more, wouldn't she? Mothers are made like that."
"Some mothers," said John; and he turned away his head.
"Not yours? I'm sorry," said Lady Mary, simply.
"Oh, well—you know, she was a good deal—in the world," he said, repenting himself.
"I use to wish so much to live in the world too," said Lady Mary, dreamily; "but ever since I was fifteen I've lived in this out-of-the-way place."
"Don't be too sorry for that," said John; "you don't know what a revelation this out-of-the-way place may be to a tired worker like me, who lives always amid the unlovely sights and sounds of a city."
"Ah! but that's just it," she said quickly. "You see I'm not tired—yet; and I've done no work."
"That is why it's such a rest to look at you," said John, smiling. "Flowers have their place in creation as vegetables have theirs. But we only ask the flowers to bloom peacefully in sheltered gardens; we don't insist on popping them into the soup with the onions and carrots."
Lady Mary laughed as though she had not a care in the world.
"It is quite refreshing to find that a big-wig like you can talk just as much nonsense as a little-wig like me," she said; "but you don't know, for all that, what the silence and monotony of life herecanbe. The very voice of a stranger falls like music on one's ears. I was so glad to see you, and you were so kind and sympathetic 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 that I know I shall wake up every morning only to realize more 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 very dilatory and difficult to deal with. Probably, however, you know more about it than I do. I am going alone. I have just been giving the necessary orders. I shall take a servant with me, as well as my maid, for I am such an inexperienced traveller—though it seems absurd, at my age—that I am quite frightened of getting into the wrong trains. I dread a journey by myself. Even such a little journey as that. But, of course, nothing would keep me at home."
"Only one thing," said John, in a low voice, "if I have judged your character rightly in so short a time."
"What is that?"
"Duty."
She looked at him with sweet, puzzled eyes, like a child.
"Are you pleading Sir Timothy's cause, Cousin John?" she said, with a little touch of 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 to go?"
"Don't think me too presuming," he said pleadingly.
"I couldn't," said Lady Mary, naively. "You are older than I am, you know," she laughed, "and a Q.C. And you know you would be my trustee and my boy's guardian if anything ever happened to Sir Timothy. He told me so long ago. And he reminded me of it to-day most solemnly. I suppose he was afraid I shouldn't treat you with proper respect."
"He has honoured me very highly," said John. "In that case, it would be almost my—my duty to advise you in any difficulty that might arise, wouldn't it?"
"That means you want to advise me now?"
"Frankly, it does."
"And areyougoing to tell me that I ought to stay at home, and let my only boy leave England without bidding him God-speed?" said Lady Mary incredulously. "If so, I warn you that you will never convince me of that, argue as you may."
"No one is ever convinced by argument," said John. "But stern facts sometimes command even a woman's attention."
"When backed by such powers of persuasion as yours, perhaps."
She faced him with sparkling eyes. Lady Mary was timid and gentle by nature, but Peter's mother knew no fear. Yet she realized that if John Crewys were moved to put forth his full powers, he might be a difficult man to oppose. She met his glance, and observed that he perfectly understood the spirit which animated her, and that it was not opposition that shone from his bright hazel eyes, as he regarded her steadily through his pince-nez.
"I am going to deal with a hard fact, which your husband is afraid to tell you," said John, "because, in his tenderness for your womanly weakness, he underrates, as I venture to think, your womanly courage. Sir Timothy wants you to be with him here to-morrow because he has to—to fight an unequal battle—"
"With the Crown?"
"With Death."
"What do you mean?" said Lady Mary.
"He has been silently combating a mortal disease for many months past," said John, "and to-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 eleven o'clock, and on the success of the operation he will perform, hangs the thread of your husband's life."
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 her from her absorption in her son; but she looked so fragile, so white, so imploring, that his courage almost failed him. He came to her side, and took the little hand reassuringly in his strong, warm clasp.
"Be brave, my dear," he said, with faltering voice, "and put aside, if you can, the thought of your bitter, terrible disappointment. Onlyyoucan cheer, and inspire, and aid your husband to maintain the calmness of spirit which is of such vital importance to his chance of recovery. You can't leave him against his wish at such a moment; not if you are the—the angel I believe you to be," said John, with emotion.
There was a pause, and though he looked away from her, he knew that she was crying.
John released the little hand gently, and walked to the fireplace to give her time to recover herself. Perhaps his eye-glasses were dimmed; he polished them very carefully.
Lady Mary dashed away her tears, and spoke in a hard voice he scarcely recognized as hers.
"I might be all—you think me, John," she said, "if—"
"Ah! don't let there be anif," said John.
"But—"
"Or abut."
"It is that you don't understand the situation," she said; "you talk as though Sir Timothy and I were an ordinary husband and wife, entirely dependent on one another's love and sympathy. Don't you knowhestands alone—above all the human follies and weaknesses of a mere woman? Can't you guess," said Lady Mary, passionately, "that it's my boy, my poor faulty, undutiful boy—oh, that I should call him so!—who needs me? that it's his voice that would be calling in my heart whilst I awaited Sir Timothy's pleasure to-morrow?"
"Hispleasure?" said John, sternly.
"I am shocking you, and I didn't want to shock you," she cried, almost wildly. "But you don't suppose he needsme—me myself? He only wants to be sure I'm doing the right thing. He wants to give people no chance of saying that Lady Mary Crewys rushed off to see her spoilt boy whilst her husband hovered between life and death. A lay figure would do just as well; if it would only sit in an armchair and hold its handkerchief to its eyes; and if the neighbours, and his sisters, and the servants could be persuaded to think it was I."
"Hush, hush!" said John.
"Do let me speak out; pray let me speak out," she said, breathless and imploring, "and you can think what you like of me afterwards, when I am gone, if only you won't scold now. I am so sick of being scolded," said Lady Mary. "Am I to be a child for ever—I, that am so old, and have lost my boy?"
He thought there was something in her of the child that 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 into it tenderly.
"Say what you will," said John.
"This is comfortable," she said, leaning her head wearily on her hand; "to talk to a—a friend 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 first to explain to you that it isn't my tears nor my kisses, nor my consolation he wants. You didn't think soreally, did you?"
John hesitated, remembering Sir Timothy's words, but she did not wait for an answer.
"Yes," she said calmly, "he wishes me to be in my proper place. It would be a scandal if I did such a remarkable thing as to leave home on any pretext at such a moment. Only by being extraordinarily respectable and dignified can we live down the memory of his father's unconventional behaviour. I must remember my position. I must smell my salts, and put my feet up on the sofa, and be moderately overcome during the crisis, and moderately thankful to the Almighty when it's over, so that every one may hear how admirably dear Lady Mary behaved. And when I am reading theTimesto him during his convalescence," she cried, wringing her hands, "Peter—Peter will be thousands of miles away, marching over the veldt 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 always the only sons who die. I've remarked that."
"You make very sure of Sir Timothy's recovery."
"Oh yes," Lady Mary said again. "He's a very strong man."
Something ominous in John's face and voice attracted her attention.
"Why do you look like that?"
"Because," said John, slowly—"you understand I'm treating you as a woman of courage—Dr. Blundell told me just now that—the odds are against him."
She uttered a little cry.
The doctor's voice at the end of the hall made them both start.
"Lady Mary," he said, "you will forgive my interruption. Sir Timothy desired me to join you. He feared this double blow might prove too much for your strength."
"I am quite strong," said Lady Mary.
"He wished me to deliver a message," said the doctor.
"Yes."
"On reflection, Sir Timothy believes that he may be partly influenced by a selfish desire for the consolation of your presence in wishing you to remain with him to-morrow. He was struck, I believe, with something Mr. Crewys said—on this point."
"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 speak calmly and steadily. His eyes were bent on the floor, and he never once looked at Lady Mary.
"Sir Timothy desires, consequently," he said, "that you will consider yourself free to 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 asks you to convey to him, as quickly as possible, your final decision. As his physician, may I beg you not to keep him waiting?"
He left them, and returned to the study.
Though it was only a short silence that followed his departure, John had time to learn by heart the aspect of the half-lighted, shadowy hall.
There are some pauses which are illustrated to the day of a man's death, by a vivid impression on his memory of the surroundings.
The heavy, painted beams crossing and re-crossing the lofty roof; the black staircase lighted with wax candles, that made a brilliancy which threw into deeper relief the darkness of every recess and corner; the full-length, Early Victorian portraits of men and women of his own race—inartistic daubs, that were yet horribly lifelike in the semi-illumination; the uncurtained mullioned windows,—all formed a background for the central figure in his thoughts; the slender womanly form in the armchair; the little brown head supported on the white hand; the delicate face, robbed of its youthful freshness, and yet so lovely still.
"John," said Lady Mary, in a voice from which all passion and strength had died away, "tell me 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, perhaps for ever, that—that his heart would be touched—that I should get a glimpse once more of the Peter he used to be. Oh, can't you understand? He—he's a little—hard and cold to me sometimes—God forgive me for saying so!—but you—you've been a young man too."
"Yes," John said, rather sadly, "I've been young too."
"It's only his age, you know," she said. "He couldn't always be as gentle and loving as when he was a child. A young man would think that so babyish. He wants, as he says, to be independent, and not tied to a woman's apron-string. But in his heart of hearts he loves me best in the whole world, and he wouldn't have been ashamed to let me see it at such a moment. And I should have had a precious memory of him for ever. You shake your head. Don't you understand me? I thought you seemed to understand," she said wistfully.
"Peter is a boy," said John, "and life is just opening for him. It is a hard saying toyou, but his thoughts are full of the world he is entering. There is no room in them just now for the home he is leaving. That is human nature. If he be sick or sorry later on—as I know your loving fancy pictures him—his heart would turn even then, not to the mother he saw waving and weeping on the quay, amid all the confusion of departure, but to the mother of his childhood, of his happy days of long ago. It may be "—John hesitated, and spoke very tenderly—"it may be that his heart will be all the softer then, because he was denied the parting interview he never sought. 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 actually granted them. It isyouwho will suffer from this sacrifice, not Peter; that will be some consolation to you, I suppose, even if it be also a disappointment."
"Ah, how you understand!" said Peter's mother, sadly.
"Perhaps because, as you said just now, I have been a young man too," he said, forcing a smile. "Oh, forgive me, but let me save you; for I believe that if you deserted your husband to-day, you would sorrow for it to the end of your life."
"And Peter—" she murmured.
He came to her side, and straightened himself, and spoke hopefully.
"Give me your last words and your last gifts—and a letter—for Peter, and send me in your stead to-night. I will deliver them faithfully. I will tell him—for he should be told—of the 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 that sacred parting which you desire."
Lady Mary held out her hand to him.
"Tell Sir Timothy that I will stay," she whispered.
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 the badly painted miniature of Peter, and cried as one who had lost all hope in life.
"Her didn't make much account on him while him were alive; but now 'ce be dead, 'tis butivul tu zee how her du take on," said Happy Jack.
There was a soft mist of heat; the long-delayed spring coming suddenly, after storms of cold rain and gales of 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 from the soaked earth.
The flowering laurels hung over the shady banks, whereon large families of primroses spent their brief and lovely existence undisturbed. The hawthorn put forth delicate green leaves, and the white buds of the cherry-trees in the orchard were swelling on their leafless boughs.
In such summer warmth, and with the concert of building birds above and around, it was strange to see the dead and wintry aspect of the forest trees; still bare and brown, though thickening with the red promise of 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 'ee go gadding London ways, zays I, when there be zuch a turble lot to zee arter? and the ladyship oop Barracombe ways, her bain't vit var tu du 't, as arl on us du know. Tis butivul tu zee how her takes on," he repeated admiringly.
John glanced uneasily at his companion, who stood with downcast eyes.
"Lard, I doan't take no account on Miss Zairy," said the road-mender, leaning on his hoe and looking sharply from the youthful lady to the middle-aged gentleman. "I've knowed her zince her wur a little maid. I used tu give her lolly-pops. Yu speak up, Miss Zairy, and tell 'un if I didn't."
"To be sure you did, Father Jack," said Sarah, promptly.
"Ah, zo 'a did," said the old man, chuckling. "Zo 'a did, and her ladyship avore yu. I mindherwhen her was a little maid, and pretty ways her had wi' her, zame as now. None zo ramshacklin' as yu du be, Miss Zairy."
"There's nobody about that he doesn't remember as a child," said Sarah, apologetically. "He's so old, you see. He doesn't remember how old he is, and nobody can tell him. But he knows he was born in the reign of George the Third, because his mother told him so; and he remembers his 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 how I du wark yit. Yif I'd 'a give up my wark, I shude 'a bin in the churchyard along o' the idlers, that 'a shude." He chuckled and winked. "I du be a turble vunny man," quavered the thin falsetto voice. "They be niver a dune a laughin' along o' my jokes. An' I du remember Zur Timothy'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 had a bad temper," explainedSarah. "It's quite 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 mead thereby, as the volk did claim. And 'a zays, 'A'll putt a stop tu 'un,' 'a zays. And him zat on a style, long zide the tharn bush, and 'a took 'ee's gun, and 'a zays, 'A'll shute vust man are maid as cumes acrust thiccy vield,' 'a zays. And us knowed 'un wude du 't tu. And 'un barred the gate, and there t'was."
He laughed till the tears ran down his face, brown as gingerbread, and wrinkled as a monkey's.
"Mr. Crewys is in a hurry, Jack," said Sarah. "He's only just arrived from London, and he's walked all the way from Brawnton."
"'Tain't but a stip vur a vine vellar like 'ee, and wi' a vine maiden like yu du be grown, var tu kip 'ee company," said Happy Jack. "But 'ee'll be in 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 agree wi' my inzide, an' it gits into my yead, and makes me proper jolly, zo the young volk make game 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; and John, half laughing and half vexed, pursued his road with Sarah.
"It seems to me that the old gentleman has become a trifle free and easy with advancing years," he observed.
"He thinks he has a right to be interested in the family," said Sarah, "because of the connection, you see."
"The connection?"
"Didn't you know?" she asked, with wide-open eyes. "Though you wereSir Timothy's own cousin."
"A very distant cousin," said John.
"But every one in the valley knows," said Sarah, "that Sir Timothy's father married his 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 allude to it. It is the skeleton in their cupboard. We haven't got a skeleton in our family," she added regretfully; "least of all the skeleton of a cook."
John remembered vaguely that there was a story about the 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 essentially unromantic in the profession of a cook?"
"Her family went to Australia, and they are quite rich people now: no more cooks than you and me," said Sarah, gravely. "But Happy Jack won't leave Youlestone, though he says they tempted him with untold gold. And he wouldn't touch his hat to Sir Timothy, because he was his cousin. That was another skeleton."
"But a very small one," said John, laughing.
"It might seem small tous, but I'm sure it was one reason why SirTimothy never went outside his own gates if he could help it," saidSarah, shrewdly. "Luckily the cook died when 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's sisters?" asked Sarah, with simplicity. "They were in the schoolroom when their papa married her, or I am sure they would never have allowed it. 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'snextwife would be," said Sarah, giggling. "They always talk of her as theHonourable Rachel, sinceLady Crewys, you know, might just as well mean the cook. I suppose the old squire got tired of her being so select, and thought he would like a change. He was a character, you know. I often think Peter will be a character when he grows old. He is so disagreeable at times."
"I thought you were so fond of Peter?" said John, looking amusedly down on the little chatterbox beside him.
"Not exactly fond of him. It's just that I'musedto him," said Sarah, colouring all over her clear, fresh face, even to the little tendrils of red hair on her white neck.
She wore a blue cotton frock, and a brown mushroom hat, with a wreath of wild roses which had somewhat too obviously been sewn on in a hurry and crookedly; and she looked far more like a village schoolgirl than a young lady who was shortly to make herdébutin London society. But he was struck with the extraordinary brilliancy of her complexion, transparent and pure as it was, in the searching sunlight.
"If she were not so round-shouldered—if the features were better—her expression softer," said John to himself—"if divine colouring were all—she would be beautiful."
But her wide, smiling mouth, short-tipped nose, and cleft chin, conveyed rather the impression of childish audacity than of feminine charm. The glance of those bright, inquisitive eyes was like a wild robin's, half innocent, half bold. Though her round throat were white as milk, and though no careless exposure to sun and wind had yet succeeded in dimming the exquisite fairness of her skin, yet the defects and omissions incidental to extreme youth, country breeding, and lack of discipline, rendered Miss Sarah not wholly pleasing in John's fastidious eyes. Her carriage was slovenly, her ungloved hands were red, her hair touzled, and her deep-toned voice over-loud and confident. Yet her frankness and her trustfulness could not fail to evoke sympathy.