"Oh, John," said Lady Mary, "tell me what to do? No, no; don't tell me—or I shall do it—and I mustn't."
"My darling," he said, "I only tell you to wait." He rallied himself to speak cheerfully, and to bring the life and colour back to her sad, white face.
"Just at this moment I quite realize I should be a disturbing element, and I am going to get myself out of the way as quickly as politeness permits. And you are to devote yourself to Peter, and not to be torn with self-reproach. If we act sensibly, and don't precipitate matters, nobody need have a grievance, and Peter and I will be the best of friends in the future, I hope. There is little use in having grown-up wits if we snatch our happiness at the expense of other people's feelings, as young folk so often do."
The twinkle in his bright eyes, and the kindly humour of his smile, restored her shaken self-confidence.
"Oh, John, no one else could ever understand—as you understand. If only Peter—"
"Peter is a boy," said John, "dreaming as a boy dreams, resolving as a boy resolves; and his 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 better than words, that he had not resigned his claims.
"Now I'll go and offer my congratulations to the hero of the day," said John. "I must not put off any longer; and it is quite settled that our secret is to remain our secret—for the present."
Then he stepped out on to the terrace, and Lady Mary looked after him with a little sigh and smile.
She lifted a hand-mirror from the silver table that stood at her elbow, and shook her head over it.
"It's all very well for him, and it's all very well for Peter," she said; "but Time—Time ismyworst enemy."
Sarah Hewel ran into the drawing-room before Lady Mary found courage to put her newly gained composure to 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. "I thought you would be out-of-doors with the others!"
"Sarah, my dear!" said Lady Mary, kissing her.
"I—I saw all the people," said Sarah, in a breathless, agitated way, "I heard the news, and I wasn't sure whether I ought to come to luncheon all the same or not; so I slipped in by the side door to see whether I could find some one to ask quietly. Oh!" cried Sarah, throwing her 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 to red again.
"But they said," she faltered—"they said he—"
"Yes, my dear," said Lady Mary, understanding; and the tears started to her own eyes. "Peter has lost an arm, but otherwise—otherwise," she said, in trembling tones, "my boy is safe and sound."
Sarah turned away her face and cried.
Lady Mary was touched. "Why, Sarah!" she said; and she drew the girl down beside her on the sofa and kissed her softly.
"I am sorry to be so silly," said Sarah, recovering herself. "It isn't a bit like me, is it?"
"It is like you, I think, to have a warm heart," said Lady Mary, "though you don't show it to every one; and, after all, you and Peter are old friends—playmates all your lives."
"It's been like a lump of lead on my heart all these months and years," said Sarah, "to think how I scoffed at Peter in the Christmas holidays before he went to the war, because my brothers had gone, whilst he stayed at home. Perhaps that was the reason he went. I used to lie awake at night sometimes, thinking that if Peter were killed it would be all my fault. And now his arm has gone—and Tom and Willie came back safely long ago." She cried afresh.
"It may not have been that at all," said Lady Mary, consolingly. "I don't think Peter was a boy to take much notice of what a goose of a little girl said. He felt he was a man, and ought to go—and his grandfather was a soldier—it is in the blood of the Setouns to want to fight for their country," said Lady Mary, with a smile and a little thrill of pride; for, after all, if her boy were a Crewys, he was also a Setoun. "Besides, poor child, you were so young; you didn't think; you didn't know—"
"You always make excuses for me," said Sarah, with subdued enthusiasm; "but I understand better now what it means—to send an only son 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 yourself any longer. It is good of you to care so much for my boy."
"It—it isn't only that. Of course, I was always fond of Peter," said Sarah; "but even if I had nothing to do with his going"—her voice sounded incredulous—"you know how one feels over our soldiers coming home—and a boy who has given his right arm for England. It makes one so choky and yet so proud—I can't say all I mean—but you know—"
"Yes, I know," said Lady Mary; and she smiled, but the tears were rolling down her cheeks.
"And what it must be toyou," sobbed Sarah, "the day you were to have been so happy, to see him come back likethat! No wonder you are sad. One feels one could never do enough to—to make it up to him."
"But I'm far more happy than sad," said Lady Mary; and to prove her words she leant back upon the cushions and cried.
"You're not," said Sarah, kneeling by her; "how can you be, my darling, sweet Lady Mary? But youmustbe happy," she said; and her odd, deep tones took a note of coaxing that was hard to resist. "Think how proud every one will be of him, and how—how all the other mothers will envy you! You—you mustn't care so terribly. It—it isn'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—even write his letters—"
"Oh, Sarah, Sarah, stop!" said Lady Mary, faintly. "It—it isn't that."
"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 inquiring young face.
Sarah's apple-blossom beauty, as was to have been expected, had increased a thousand-fold since her school girl days. She had grown tall to match the plumpness of her figure, which had not decreased. Her magnificent hair showed its copper redness in every variety of curl and twist upon her white forehead, and against her whiter throat.
She was no longer dressed in blue cotton. Lady Tintern knew how to give such glorious colouring its true value. A gauzy, transparent black flowed over a close-fitting white gown beneath, and veiled her fair arms and neck. Black bébé ribbon gathered in coquettishly the folds which shrouded Sarah's abundant charms, and a broad black sash confined her round young waist. A black chip hat shaded the glowing hair and the face, "ruddier than the cherry, and whiter than milk;" and the merry, dark blue eyes had a penthouse of their own, of drooping lashes, which redeemed the boldness of their frank and 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. "Oh no," she quoth. "Those aren't happy tears."
"You're too old, dear Sarah, to be anenfant terriblestill," saidLady Mary; but Sarah was not so easily disarmed.
"I will know! Come, I'm your godchild, and you always spoil me. He's not come back 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's grown so loving and so sweet—not that he wasn't always loving in his heart, but—
"Oh," cried Sarah, impatiently, "as if I didn't know Peter! But if it wasn'tthatwhich 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'm not angry! How could I be angry with my little loyal Sarah, who's always loved me so? It's only that I can't bear to be questioned just now." She caressed the girl eagerly, almost apologetically. "I must have a few moments to recover myself. I'll go quietly away into the study—anywhere. Wait for me here, darling, and make some excuse for me if any one comes. I want to be alone for a few moments. Peter mustn't find me crying again."
"Yes—that's all very well," said Sarah to herself, as the slight form hurried from the drawing-room into the dark oak hall beyond. "Butwhyis she unhappy? There is something else."
It was Dr. Blundell who found the answer to Sarah's riddle.
He had seen the signs of weeping on Lady Mary's face as she stumbled over the threshold of the window into the very arms of John Crewys, and his feelings were divided between passionate sympathy with his divinity, and anger with the returned hero, who had no doubt reduced his mother to this distressful state. The doctor was blinded by love and misery, and ready to suspect the whole world of doing injustice to this lady; though he believed himself to be destitute of jealousy, and capable of judging Peter with perfect impartiality.
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 to her son, and that Peter had already forbidden the banns.
He wandered miserably about the grounds, within hearing of the rejoicings; and had just made up his mind that he ought to go and join the speechmakers, when he perceived John Crewys himself standing next to Peter, apparently on the best possible terms with the hero of the day.
The doctor hastened round to the hall, intending to enter the drawing-room unobserved, and find out for himself whether Lady Mary had recovered, or whether John Crewys had heartlessly abandoned her to her grief.
The brilliant vision Miss Sarah presented, as she stood, drawn up to her full height, in the shaded drawing-room, met his anxious gaze as he entered.
"Why, Miss Sarah! Not gone back to London yet? I thought you only came down for Whitsuntide."
"Mamma wasn't well, so I am staying on for a few days. I am supposed to be nursing her," said Sarah, demurely.
She was a favourite with the doctor, as she was very well aware, and, in consequence, was always exceedingly gracious 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 the study. And she's alone—crying."
"Crying!" said the doctor; and he made a step towards the open door, but Sarah's strong, white hand held him fast.
"Play fair," she said reproachfully; "I told you in confidence. You can't suppose she wantsyouto see her crying."
"No, no," said the poor doctor, "of course not—of course not."
She closed the doors between the rooms. "Look here, Dr. Blundell, we've always been friends, haven't we, you and me?"
"Ever since I had the honour of ushering you into 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—the joy of Peter's return has been too much for her," he suggested.
"Yes," said Sarah. "That's what we'll tell the other people. But you and I—why, Dr. Blunderbuss," she said reproachfully, using the name she had given him in her saucy childhood, "you know how I've worshipped Lady Mary ever since I was a little girl?"
"Yes, yes, my dear, I know," said the doctor.
"You love her too, don't you?" said Sarah.
He started. "I—I love Lady Mary! What do you mean?" he said, almost violently.
"Oh, I didn't meanthatsort of love," said Sarah, watching him keenly. Then she laid her plump hand gently on his shabby sleeve. "I wouldn't have said it, if I'd thought—"
"Thought what?" said the doctor, agitated.
"What I think now," said Sarah.
He walked up and down in a silence she was too wise to break. When he looked at her again, Sarah was leaning against the piano. She had taken off the picture-hat, and was swinging it absently to and fro by the black ribbons which had but now been tied beneath her round, white chin. She presented a charming picture—and it is possible she knew it—as she stood in that restful pose, with her long lashes pointed downwards towards her buckled shoes.
The doctor stopped in front of her. "You are too quick for me, Sarah. You always were, even as a little girl," he said. "You've surprised my—my poor secret. You can laugh at the old doctor now, if you like."
"I don't feel like laughing," said Sarah, simply. "And your secret is safe with me. I'm honest; you know that."
"Yes, my dear; I know that. God bless you!" said the doctor.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Blundell," said Sarah, softly.
The deep voice which came from the full, white chest, and which had once been so unmanageable, was one of Sarah's surest weapons now.
When she sang, she counted her victims by the dozen; when she lowered it, as she lowered it now, to speak only to one man, every note went straight to his heart—if he 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 gathered to the doctor's kind, tired eyes.
"For me!" he said gratefully. "Oh, you mustn't be sorry for me. She—she could hardly be further out ofmyreach, you know, if she were—an angel in heaven, instead of being what she is—an angel on earth. It is—ofherthat I was thinking."
"I know," said Sarah; "but she has been looking so bright and hopeful, ever since we heard Peter was coming home—until to-day—when he has actually come; and that is what puzzles me."
"To-day—to-day!" said the doctor, as though to himself. "Yes; it was to-day I saw her touch happiness timidly, and come face to face with disappointment."
"You saw her?"
"Oh, when one loves," he said bitterly, "one has intuitions which serve as well as eyes and ears. You will know all about it one day, little Sarah."
"Shall I?" said Sarah. She turned her face away from the doctor.
"You've not been here very much lately," he said, "but you've been here long enough to guess her secret, as you—you've guessed 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—I did choose him," said the doctor, looking at her almost fiercely. It was an odd consolation to him to believe he had first led John Crewys to interest himself in Lady Mary. He recognized his rival's superior qualifications very fully and humbly. "You know all about it, Miss Sarah, don't tell me; so quick as you are to find out what 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—I couldn't believe thatshe—"
"You haven't watched as I have," he groaned; "you haven't seen the sparkle come back to her eye, and the colour to her cheek. You haven't watched her learning to laugh and sing and enjoy her innocent days as Nature bade; since she has dared to be herself. It was love that taught her an that."
"Love!" said Sarah.
Her soft, red lips parted; and her breath quickened with a sudden sensation of mingled interest, sympathy, and amusement.
"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 and girls, like you and—and Peter."
"I don't know what Peter has to do with it," said Sarah, pouting.
"I heard Peter explaining to his tenants just now," said the doctor, with a harsh laugh, "that he was going to settle down here for good and all—with his mother; that nothing was to be changed from his father's time. Something in his words would have made me understand the look on his mother's face, even if I hadn't read it right—already. She will sacrifice her love for John Crewys to her love for her son; and by the time Peter finds out—as in the course of nature he will find out—that he can do without his mother, her chance of happiness will be gone for ever."
Sarah looked a little queerly at the doctor.
"Then the sooner Peter finds out," she said 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 a great happiness as we grow older, little Sarah. The possibilities that once seemed so boundless, lie in 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 me all I wanted to know. She sha'n't be unhappy ifIcan help it."
"You!" said the doctor, shrugging his shoulders rather rudely. "I don't see whatyoucan do."
Sarah reddened with lofty indignation. "It would be very odd if you did," she said spitefully; "you're only a man, when all is said and done. But if you'll only promise not to interfere, I'll manage it beautifully all by myself."
"What will you do?" said the doctor, inattentively; and his blindness to Sarah's charms and her powers 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, starting up; "remember, I told you in confidence—though why I was such a fool—"
"Am I likely to forget?" said Sarah; "and you will see one day whether you were a fool to tellme." She said to herself, despairingly, that the stupidity of mankind was almost past praying for. 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 quite composed, 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 welcome upset me so that I dared not go out on the terrace again. Ash has just been to tell me it's all over, and that Peter made a capital speech; quite as good as Mr. John's, he said; but that is hardly 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 cider by the hogshead. Hallo! the speeches must be really all over," he said, for, above vociferous cheering, the strains of the National Anthem could just be discerned.
Peter came striding across the terrace, and looked in at the open window.
"Are you better again, mother?" he called. "Could you come out now?They've done at last, but they're calling for you."
"Yes, yes; I'm quite ready. I won't be so silly again," said LadyMary.
But Peter did not listen. "Why—" he said, and stopped short.
"Surely you haven't forgotten Sarah," said Lady Mary, laughing—"your little playmate Sarah? But perhaps I ought to say Miss Hewel now."
"How do you do, Sir Peter?" said Sarah, in a very stately manner. "I am very glad to be here to welcome you home."
Peter, foolishly embarrassed, took the hand she offered with such gracious composure, and blushed all over his thin, tanned face.
"I—I should hardly have known you," he stammered.
"Really?" said Sarah.
"Won't you," said Peter, still looking at her, "join us on the terrace?"
"The people aren't calling forme" said Sarah.
"But it might amuse you," said Peter, deferentially.
He put up his eyeglass—but though Sarah's red lip quivered, she did not laugh.
"It's rather jolly, really," he said. "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 with the air of a princess. "But they'll be so disappointed to see me instead of your mother."
"Disappointed to seeyou!" said Peter, stupefied.
She stepped forth, laughing, and Peter followed her closely. John Crewys stood aside to let them pass. Lady Mary, half amazed and half amused, realized suddenly that her son had forgotten he came back to fetch her. She hesitated on the threshold. More cheers and confused shouting greeted Peter's reappearance on the balcony. He turned and waved to his mother, and the canon came hurrying over the grass.
"The people are shouting for Lady Mary; they want Lady Mary," he cried.
John Crewys looked at her with a smile, and held out his hand, and she stepped over the sill, and went away across the terrace garden with him.
The doctor turned his face from the crowd, and went back alone into the empty room.
"Whodoesn'twant Lady Mary?" he said to himself, forlornly.
Peter stood on his own front door steps, on the shady side of the house, in the fresh air of the early morning. The unnecessary eyeglass twinkled on his breast as he looked forth upon the goodliness and beauty of his inheritance. The ever-encroaching green of summer had not yet overpowered the white wealth of flowering spring; for the season was a late one, and the month of June still young.
The apple-trees were yet in blossom, and the snowy orchards were scattered over the hillsides between patches of golden gorse. The lilacs, white and purple, were in flower, amid scarlet rhododendrons and branching pink and yellow tree-azaleas. The weeping barberry showered gold dust upon the road.
On the lower side of the drive, the rolling grass slopes were thriftily left for hay; a flowering mass of daisies, and buttercups, and red clover, and blue speedwell.
A long way off, but still clearly visible in the valley below, glistened the stone-tiled roof of the old square-towered church, guarded by its sentinel yews.
A great horse-chestnut stood like a giant bouquet of waxen bloom beside a granite monument which threw a long shadow over the green turf mounds towards the west, and marked the grave of Sir Timothy Crewys.
Peter saw that monument more plainly just now than all the rest of his surroundings, although he was short-sighted, and although his eyes were further dimmed by sudden tears.
His memories of his father were not particularly tender ones, and his grief was only natural filial sentiment in its vaguest and lightest form. But such as it was—the sight of the empty study, which was to be his own room in future; the strange granite monument shining in the sun; the rush of home associations which the familiar landscape aroused—augmented it for the time being, and made the young man glad of a moment's solitude.
There was the drooping ash—which had made such a cool, refreshing tent in summer—where he had learnt his first lessons at his mother's knee, and where he had kept his rabbit-hutch for a season, until his father had found it out, and despatched it to the stable-yard.
His punishments and the troubles of his childhood had always been associated with his father, and its pleasures and indulgences with his mother; but neither had made any very strong impression on Peter's mind, and it was of his father that he thought with most sympathy, and even most affection. Partly, doubtless, because Sir Timothy was dead, and because Peter's memories were not vivid ones, any more than his imagination was vivid; but also because his mind was preoccupied with a vague resentment against his mother.
He could not understand the change which was, nevertheless, so evident. Her new-born brightness and ease of 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 first arrival.
It was absurd, Peter thought, in all the arrogance of disdainful youth, that a woman of her age should have learnt to care for her appearance thus; or to wear becoming gowns, and arrange her hair like a fashion plate.
If it had been Sarah he could have understood.
At the thought of Sarah the colour suddenly flushed across his thin, tanned face, and he moved uneasily.
Sarah, too, was changed; but not even Peter could regret the change inSarah.
The loveliness of his mother, refined and white and delicate as she was, did not appeal to him; but Sarah, in her radiant youth, with her brilliant colouring—fresh as a May morning, buxom as a dairymaid, scornful as a princess—had struck Sir Peter dumb with admiration, though he had hitherto despised young women. It almost enraged him to remember that this stately beauty had ever been an impudent little schoolgirl, with a turned-up nose and a red pigtail. In days gone by, Miss Sarah had actually fought and scratched the spoilt boy, who tried to tyrannize over his playmate as he tyrannized over his mother and his aunts. On the other hand, the recollection of those early days also became precious to Peter for 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 facilities for ecstatic reverie, still—there had been moments, 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, sharing each other's toffee and confidences.
Poor Sarah had been first despatched to a boarding school as unmanageable, at the age of seven, and thereafter her life had been a changeful one, since her father could not live without her, and her mother would not keep her at home. She had always presented a lively contrast to her elder brothers, who were all that a parent's heart could desire, and too old to be much interested in their little rebellious sister.
Her high spirits survived disgrace and punishment and periodical banishment. Though not destitute of womanly qualities, she was more remarkable for hoydenish ones; and her tastes were peculiar and varied. If there were a pony to break in, a sick child to be nursed, a groom to scold, a pig to be killed—there was Sarah; but if a frock to try on, a visit to be paid, a note to be written—where was she?
Peter, recalling these things, tried to laugh at himself for his extraordinary infatuation of the previous day; but he knew very well in his heart that he could not really laugh, and that he had lain awake half the night thinking of her.
Sarah had spent the rest of the day at Barracombe after Peter's return, and had been escorted home late in the evening. Could he ever forget those moments on the terrace, when she had paced up and down beside him, in the pleasant summer darkness; her white neck and arms gleaming through transparent black tulle; sometimes listening to the sounds of music and revelry in the village below, and looking at the rockets that were being let off on the river-banks; and sometimes asking him of the war, in that low voice which thrilled Peter as it had already thrilled not a few interested hearers before him?
Those moments had been all too few, because John Crewys also had monopolized a share of Miss Sarah's attention. Peter did not dislike his guardian, whose composed courtesy and absolute freedom from self-consciousness, or any form of affectation, made it difficult indeed not to like him. His remarks made Peter smile in spite of himself, though he could not keep the ball of conversation rolling like Miss Sarah, who was not at all afraid of the great counsel, but matched his pleasant wit, with a most engaging impudence 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, who purposely exerted himself to amuse her and to keep her from dwelling upon their parting on the morrow.
Her thoughtful son insisted that she must avoid exposure to the night air, and poor Lady Mary had somewhat ruefully returned to the society of the old ladies within; but John Crewys did not, as he might, and as Peter had supposed he would, join the other old folk. Peter classed his mother and aunts together, quite calmly, in his thoughts. He listened to Sarah's light talk with John, watching her like a man in a dream, hardly able to speak himself; and it is needless to say that he found her chatter far more interesting and amusing than anything John could say.
Who could have dreamt that little Sarah would grow up into this bewitching maiden? There was a girl coming 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 with his recollections of this lady.
How easy it was to talk to Sarah! How much easier than to his mother; whom, nevertheless, he loved so dearly, though always with that faint dash of disapproval which somehow embittered his love.
He could not shake off the impression of her first appearance, coming singing down the oak staircase, in her white gown.His mother!Dressed almost like a girl, and, worst of all, looking almost like a girl, so slight and white and delicate. Peter recollected that Sir Timothy had been very particular about his wife's apparel. He liked it to be costly and dignified, and she had worn stiff silks and poplins inappropriate to the country, but considered eminently suited to her position by the Brawnton dressmaker. And her hair had been parted on her forehead, and smoothed over her little ears. Sir Timothy did not approve of curling-irons and frippery.
Peter did not know that his mother had cried over her own appearance often, before she became indifferent; and if he had known, he would have thought it only typical of the weakness and frivolity which he had heard attributed to Lady Mary from his earliest childhood.
His aunts were not intentionally disloyal to their sister-in-law; but their disapproval of her was too strong to be hidden, and they regarded a little boy as blind and deaf to all that did not directly concern his lessons or his play. Thus Peter had grown up loving his mother, but disapproving of her, and the disapproval was sometimes more apparent than the love.
After breakfast the new squire took an early walk with his guardian, and inspected a few of the changes which had taken place in the administration of his tiny 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-down and out of repair; rotting woodwork, worn-off paint, and missing tiles had been painfully evident. Broken fences and hingeless gates were the rule, and not the exception, in the grounds.
Now all deficiencies had been made good by a cunning hand that had allowed no glaring newness to be visible; a hand that had matched old tiles, and patched old walls, and planted creepers, and restored an almost magical order and comfort to Peter's beautiful old house.
Where Sir Timothy's grumbling tenants had walked to the nearest brook for water, they now found pipes brought to their own cottage doors. The home-farm, stables, yards, and cowsheds were drained and paved; fallen outbuildings replaced, uneven roads gravelled and rolled; dead trees removed, and young ones planted, shrubberies trimmed, and views long obscured once more opened out.
Peter did not need the assurances of Mr. Crawley to be aware that his inheritance would be handed back to him improved a thousand-fold.
He was astounded to find how easily John had arranged matters over which his father had grumbled and hesitated for years. Even the dispute with the Crown had been settled by Mr. Crawley without difficulty, now that Sir Timothy's obstinacy no longer stood in the way of a reasonable compromise.
John Crewys had faithfully carried out the instructions of the will; and there were many thousands yet left of the sum placed at his disposal for the improvements of the estate; a surplus which would presently be invested for Peter's benefit, and added to that carefully tied-up capital over which Sir Timothy had given his heir no discretionary powers.
Peter spent a couple of hours walking about with John, and took an intelligent interest in all that had been done, from the roof and chimney-pots of the house, to the new cider-mill and stable fittings; but though he was civil and amiable, he expressed no particular gratitude nor admiration on his return to the hall, where his mother eagerly awaited him.
It consoled her to perceive that he was on excellent terms with his guardian, offering to accompany him in 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 during his brief farewell interview, which took place in the 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, but I could hardly refuse his company."
"No, no; I am only glad you should take every opportunity of knowing him better," she said.
"And you will be happier without any divided feelings at stake," he said. "Give yourself up entirely to Peter for the next three or four 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 she understood. "When I come back we will face the situation, according to circumstances. By-the-by, I suppose it is not to be thought of that Miss Sarah should 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 heaven and earth to get rid of poor Sarah, and, now the child has had asuccès, she is always clamouring for her to come back."
"Ah!" said John, thoughtfully, "and you will moot to Peter the scheme for taking a house in town? But I should advise you to be guided by his wishes over that. Still, it would be very delightful to meet during our time of waiting; and that would be the only way. I won't come down here again until I can declare myself. It is a—false position, under the circumstances."
"I know; I understand," said Lady Mary; "but I am afraid Peter won't want to stir from home. He is so glad to be back, poor boy, one can hardly blame him; and he shares his father's prejudices against London."
"Does he, indeed?" said John, rather dryly. "Well, make the most of your summer with him.Youwill get only too much London—in the near future."
"Perhaps," Lady Mary said, smiling.
But, in spite of herself, John's confidence communicated itself to her.
When Peter and John had departed, Lady Mary went and sat alone in the quiet of the fountain garden, at the eastern end of the terrace. The thick hedges and laurels which sheltered it had been duly thinned and trimmed, to allow the entrance of the morning sunshine. Roses and lilies bloomed brightly round the fountain now, but it was still rather a lonely and deserted spot, and silent, save for the sighing of the wind, and the tinkle of the dropping water in the stone basin.
A young copper beech, freed from its rankly increasing enemies of branching laurel and encroaching bramble, now spread its glory of transparent ruddy leaf in the sunshine above trim hedges, here and there diversified by the pale gold of a laburnum, or the violet clusters of a rhododendron in full flower. Rare ferns fringed the edges of the little fountain, where diminutive reptiles whisked in and out of watery homes, or sat motionless on the brink, with fixed, glassy eyes.
Lady Mary had come often to this quiet corner for rest and peace and solitude in days gone by. She came often still, because she had a fancy that the change in her favourite garden was typical of the change in her life,—the letting-in of the sunshine, where before there had been only deepest shade; the pinks and forget-me-nots which were gaily blowing, where only moss and fungi had flourished; the blooming of the roses, where the undergrowth had crossed and recrossed withered branches above bare, black soil.
She brought her happiness here, where she had brought her sorrow and her repinings long ago.
A happiness subdued by many memories, chastened by long 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 the present, at least, Peter must come first.
The whole beautiful summer lay before her, in which she was to be free to devote herself to her wounded hero. She must set herself to charm away that shadow of discontent—of disapproval—that darkened Peter's grey eyes when they rested upon her; a shadow of which she had been only too conscious even before he went to South Africa.
She made a thousand excuses for him, after telling herself that he needed none.
Poor boy! he had been brought up in such narrow ways, such an atmosphere of petty distrust and fault-finding and small aims. Even his bold venture into the world of men had not enabled him to shake off altogether the influence of his early training, though it had changed him so much for the better; it had not altogether cured Peter of his old ungraciousness, partly inherited, and partly due to example.
But he had returned full of love and tenderness and penitence, though his softening had been but momentary; and when she had brought him under the changed influences which now dominated her own life, she could not doubt that Peter's nature would expand.
He should see that home life need not necessarily be gloomy; that all innocent pleasures and interests were to be encouraged, and not repressed. If he wanted to spend the summer at home—and after his long absence what could be more natural?—she would exert herself to make that home as attractive as possible. Why should they not entertain? John had said there was plenty of money. Peter should have other young people about him. She remembered a scene, long ago, when he had brought a boy of his own age in to lunch without permission. She would have to let Peter understand how welcome she should make his friends; he must have many more friends now. While she was yetchâtelaineof Barracombe, it would be delightful to imbue him with some idea of the duties and pleasures of hospitality. Lady Mary's eyes sparkled at the thought of providing entertainment for many young soldiers, wounded or otherwise. They should have the best of everything. She was rich, and Peter was rich, and there was no harm in making visitors welcome in that great house, and filling the rooms, that had been silent and empty so 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 stables which had been so carefully restored and fitted. There were very few horses. Only the cob for the dog-cart, and a pair for the carriage, so old that the coachman declared it was tempting Providence to sit behind them. They were calculated to have attained their twentieth year, and were driven at a slow jog-trot for a couple of hours every day, except Sundays, in the barouche. James Coachman informed Lady Belstone and Miss Crewys that either steed was liable to drop down dead at any moment, and that they could not expect the best of horses to last for ever; but the old ladies would neither shorten nor abandon their afternoon drive, nor consent to the purchase of a new pair. They continued to behave as though horses were immortal.
Sir Timothy's old black mare was turned out to graze, partly from sentiment, and partly because she, 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, unknown to his father. Lady Mary thought it would be a pleasure to see her boy well mounted and the stables filled. John had said that the loss of his arm would certainly not prevent Peter from riding. She found herself constantly referring to John, even in her plans for Peter's amusement.
Strong, calm, patient John—who was prepared to wait; and who would not, as he said, snatch happiness at 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 and Peter would be all in all to each other as Peter himself had suggested, and as she had once dreamed her son would be to his mother; though, of course, it was not to be expected that a boy could understand everything, like John.
She must make great allowances; she must be patient of his inherited prejudices; above all, she must make him happy.
Afterwards, perhaps, when Peter had learned to do without her—as he would learn too surely in the course of nature—she would be free to turn to John, and put her hand in his, and let him lead her whithersoever he would.
Peter saw his guardian off at Brawnton, dutifully standing at attention on the platform until the train had departed, instead of starting home as John suggested.
When he came out of the station he stood still for a moment, contemplating the stout, brown cob and the slim groom, who was waiting anxiously to know whether Sir Peter would take the reins, or whether he was to have the honour of driving his master home.
"I think I'll walk back, George," said Peter, with a nonchalant air. "Take the cob along quietly, and let her ladyship know directly you get in that I'm returning by Hewelscourt woods, and the ferry."
"Very good, Sir Peter," said the youth, zealously.
"It would be only civil to look in on the Hewels as Sarah is going back to town so soon," said Peter to himself. "And it's rot driving all those miles on the sunny side of the river, when it's barely three miles from here to Hewelscourt and 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, looked up from the corner of the sofa next the window, when Peter entered the drawing-room at Hewelscourt, after the usual delay, apologies, and barking of dogs which attends the morning caller at the front door of the average country house.
Peter, who had expected to see Mrs. Hewel and Sarah, repented himself for a moment that he had come at all when he beheld this stranger, who regarded him with a pair of dark eyes that seemed several times too large for her small, wrinkled face, and who merely nodded her head in response to his awkward salutation.
"Ah!" said the old lady, rather as though she were talking to herself, "so this is the returned hero, no doubt. How do you do? The rejoicing over your home-coming kept me awake half the night."
Peter was rather offended at this free-and-easy method of address. It seemed to him that, since the old lady evidently knew who he was, she might be a little more respectful in her manner.
"The festivities were all over soon after eleven," he said stiffly."But perhaps you are accustomed to early hours?"
"Perhaps I am," said the old lady; she seemed more amused than abashed by Peter's dignity of demeanour. "At any rate, I like my beauty sleep to be undisturbed; more especially in the country, where there are so many noises to wake one up from four 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 the town. I suppose you live in a town?"
"I suppose I do," said the old lady.
Peter put up his eyeglass indignantly, to quell this disrespectful old woman with a frigid look, modelled upon the expression of his board-ship hero.
The door opened suddenly.
He dropped his eyeglass with a start. But it was only Mrs. Hewel who entered, and not Sarah, after all.
Herembonpoint, and consequently her breathlessness, had much increased since Peter saw her last.
"Oh, Peter," she cried, "this is nice of you to come over and see us so soon. We were wondering if you would. Dear, dear, how thankful your mother must be! I know what I was with the boys—and decorated and all—though poor Tom and Willie got nothing; but, as the papers said, it wasn't always those who deserved it most—still, I'm gladyougot something, anyway; it's little enough, I'm sure, to make up for—" Then she turned nervously 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 the old lady, nodding affably.
"Lady Tintern arrived unexpectedly by the afternoon train yesterday,"explained Mrs. Hewel, in her flustered manner, turning once more toPeter. "She has only been here twice before. It was such a surprise toSarah to find her here when she came back."
Peter grew very red. Who could have supposed that this shabby old person, whom he had endeavoured to snub, was the great Lady Tintern?
"Shedidn'tfind me," said the old lady. "I was in bed long beforeSarah came back. I presume this young gentleman escorted her home?"
"I always send a servant across for Sarah whenever she stays at all late at Barracombe, and always have," said Mrs. Hewel, in hurried self-defence. "You must remember we are old friends; there never was any formality about her visits to Barracombe."
"My guardian and I walked down to the ferry, and saw her across the river, of course," said Peter, rather sulkily.
"But her maid was with her," cried Mrs. Hewel.
"Of course," Peter said again, in tones that were none too civil.
After all, who was Lady Tintern that she should call him to task? And as if there could be any reason why her oldest playmate should not see Sarah home if he chose.
At the very bottom of Peter's heart lurked an inborn conviction that his father's son was a 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 yourold friend. I dare say I shall see him again at luncheon?"
"I cannot stay to luncheon. My mother is expecting me," said Peter.
He would not express any thanks. What business had the presuming old woman to invite him to luncheon? It was not her house, after all.
"Oh, your mother is expecting you," said Lady Tintern, whose slightly derisive manner of repeating Peter's words embarrassed and annoyed the young gentleman exceedingly. "I am glad you are such a dutiful son, Sir Peter."
She gathered together her letters and her black draperies, and tottered off to the door, which Peter, who was sadly negligent ofles petits soinsforgot to open for her; nor did he observe the indignant look she favoured him with in consequence.
Sarah came into the drawing-room at last; fresh as the 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, white chin. Her bright hair was curled round her pretty ears and about her fair throat, but Peter did not compare thiscoiffureto a fashion plate, though, indeed, it exactly resembled one. Neither did he cast the severely critical glance upon Sarah'stoilettethat he had bestowed upon the soft, grey gown, and the cluster of white moss-rosebuds which 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 sheis," said Sarah. "She called him a cub and a bear, and all sorts of things."
She looked at Peter and laughed, and he laughed back. The cloud of sullenness had lifted from his brow as she appeared.
Mrs. Hewel overwhelmed him with unnecessary apologies. She could not grasp the fact that her polite conversation was as dull and unmeaning to the young man as Sarah's indiscreet nothings were interesting and delightful.
"I'm sure I don't mind," said Peter; 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," said Sarah. "And she came unexpectedly, because she wanted to see for herself whether mamma was really ill, or whether she was only shamming."
"Sarah!"
"And she has decided she is only shamming," said Sarah. "Unluckily, mamma happened to be down in the stables, doctoring Venus. You remember 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 know very well, Sarah," cried Mrs. Hewel, showing an inclination to shed tears.
"To be sure you ought," said Sarah; "but what is the use of telling Aunt Elizabeth that, when she saw you with her own eyes racing up and down the stable-yard, with a piece of raw meat in your hand, and Venus galloping after you."
"The vet said that if she took no exercise she would die," said Mrs. Hewel, tearfully, "and neither he nor Jones could get her to move. Not even 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 described it all to me so graphically this morning that it is almost as good as though I had been."
"She should not have come down like that, without giving us a notion," said Mrs. Hewel, resentfully.
"If she had only warned us, you could have been lying on a sofa, with the blinds down, and I could have been holding your hand and shaking a medicine-bottle," said Sarah. "That is how she expected to find us, she said, from your letters."
"I am sure I scarcely refer to my weak health in my letters," said Mrs. Hewel, plaintively, "and it is natural I should like my only daughter to be with me now and then. Aunt Elizabeth has never had a child herself, and cannot understand the feelings of a mother."
Sarah and Peter exchanged a fleeting glance. She shrugged her shoulders slightly, and Peter looked at his boots. They understood each other perfectly.
Freshly to the recollection of both rose the lamentations of a little red-haired girl, banished from the Eden of her beloved home, and condemned to a cheap German school. Mrs. Hewel, in her palmiest days, had never found it necessary to race up and down the stable-yard to amuse Sarah; and when her only daughter developed scarlatina, she had removed herself and her spaniels from home for months to escape infection.
"Here is papa," said Sarah, breaking the silence. "He was so vexed to be out when you arrived yesterday. He heard nothing of it till he came back."
Colonel Hewel walked in through the open window, with his dog at his heels. He was delighted to welcome his young neighbour home. A short, sturdy man, with red whiskers, plentiful stiff hair, and bright, dark blue eyes. From her father Sarah had inherited her colouring, her short nose, and her unfailing good spirits.
"I would have come over to welcome you," he said, shaking Peter's hand cordially, "only when I came home there was all the upset of Lady Tintern's arrival, and half a hundred things to be done to make her sufficiently comfortable. And then I would have come to fetch Sarah after dinner, only I couldn't be sure she mightn't have started; and if I'd gone down by the road, ten to one she'd have come up by the path through the woods. So I just sat down and smoked my pipe, and waited for her to come back. You'll stay to lunch, eh, Peter?"
"I must get back to my mother, sir," said Peter. His respect for Sarah's father, who had once commanded a cavalry regiment, had increased a thousand-fold since he last saw Colonel Hewel. "But won't you—I mean she'd be very glad—I wish you'd come over and dine to-night, all of you—as you could not come yesterday evening?"
Thus Peter delivered his first invitation, blushing with eagerness.
"I'm afraid we couldn't leave Lady Tintern—or persuade her to come with us," said the colonel, shaking his head. Then he brightened up. "But as soon as she and Sally have toddled back to town I see no reason why we shouldn't come, eh, Emily?" he said, turning to his wife.
Peter looked rather blank, and a laugh trembled on Sarah's pretty lips.
"You know I'm not strong enough to dine out, Tom," said his wife, peevishly. "I can't drive so far, and I'm terrified of the ferry at night, with those slippery banks."
"Well, well, there's plenty of time before us. Later on you may get better; and I don't suppose you'll be running away again in a hurry, eh, Peter?" said the colonel. "I'm told you made a capital speech yesterday about sticking to 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 grown too grand for us, who live contentedly in the country all the year round. Her home is nothing to her now, it seems; and the only thing she thinks of is rushing back to London again as fast as she can."
Sarah, contrary to her wont, received this attack in silence; but she bestowed a fond squeeze on her father's arm, and cast an appealing glance at Peter, which caused the hero's heart to leap in 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 living there all the year round. On the contrary, I think it more probable that I shall—run up to town myself, occasionally—just for the season."
On a perfect summer afternoon in mid-July, Lady Mary sat in the terrace garden at Barracombe, before the open windows of the silent house, in the shade of the great ilex; sometimes glancing at the book she held, and sometimes watching the haymakers in the valley, whose voices and laughter reached her faintly across the distance.
Some boys were playing cricket in a field below. She noted idly that the sound of the ball on the bat travelled but slowly upward, and reached her after the striker had begun to run. The effect was curious, but it was not new to her, though she listened and counted with idle interest.
The old sisters had departed for their daily drive, which she daily declined to share, having no love for the high-road, and much for the peace which their absence brought her.
It was an afternoon which made mere existence a delight amid 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 the brown, square-towered church lay full in sunshine still. The red cattle stood knee-deep in the shallows, and an old boat was moored high and dry upon the sloping red banks.
The air was sweet with a thousand mingled scents of summer flowers: carnations, stocks, roses, and jasmine. The creamy clusters of Perpetual Felicity rioted over the corner turret of the terrace, where a crumbling stair led to the top of a small, half-ruined observatory, which tradition called the look-out tower.
Flights of steps led downwards from the garden, where the bedded-out plants blazed in all their glory of ordered colour, to the walks on the lower levels. Here were long herbaceous borders, backed by the mighty sloping walls of old red sandstone, which, like an ancient fortification, supported the terrace above.
The blue larkspur flourished beside scarlet gladioli, feather-headed spirea, and hardy fuchsia. There were 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, and overpowering with their heavy scent the fainter fragrance of the mignonette. Tall, green hollyhocks towered higher yet, holding the secret of their loveliness, until these should wither; when they too would burst into blossom, and forestall the round-budded dahlia.
In the silence, many usually unheeded sounds made themselves very plainly heard.
The tapping of the great magnolia-leaves upon the windows of the south front; the rustling of the ilex; the ceaseless murmur of the river; the near twittering or distant song of innumerable birds; the steady hum of the saw-mill below; the call of the poultry-woman at the home-farm, and the shrieking response of a feathered horde flying and fighting for their food—sounds all so familiar as to pass unnoticed, save in the absence of companionship.
As Lady Mary mused alone, she could not but recall other summer afternoons, when she had not felt less lonely because her husband's voice might at any moment break the silence, and summon her to his side. Days when Peter had been absent at school, instead of, as now, at play; and when the old ladies had also been absent, taking their regular and daily drive in the big barouche.
Then she had prized and coveted the solitude of a summer afternoon on the lawn, and had stolen away to read and dream undisturbed in the shadow of the ilex.
It was now, when no vexatious restraint was exercised over her—when there was no one to reprove her for dreaming, or to criticize or forbid her chosen book—that solitude had become distasteful to her. She was restless and dissatisfied, and the misty sunlit landscape had lost its charm, and her book its power of enchaining her attention.
She had tasted the joy of real companionship; the charm of real sympathy; of the fearless exchange of ideas with one whose outlook upon life was as broad and charitable as Sir Timothy's had been narrow and prejudiced.
She had scarcely dared to acknowledge to herself how dear John Crewys had become to her, even though she knew that she rested thankfully upon the certainty of his love; that she trusted him in all things; that she was in utter sympathy with all his thoughts and words and ways.
Yet she had wished him to go, that she might be free to devote herself to her boy—to be very sure 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 not have understood. His clear head and great heart had divined her feelings, though perhaps he would never quite know how passionately grateful she was because he had divined them; because he had in no way fallen short of the man he had seemed to be.
She had sacrificed John to Peter; and John, who had shown so much wisdom and delicacy in leaving her alone with her son, was avenged; for only his absence could have made clear to her how he had grown into the heart she had guarded so jealously for Peter's sake.
She knew now that Peter's companionship made her more lonely than utter solitude.
Thejoie de vivre, which had distinguished her early days, and was inherent in her nature, had been quenched, to all appearance, many years since; but the spark had never died, and John had fanned it into brightness once more.
His strong hand had swept away the cobwebs that had been spun across her life; and the drooping soul had revived in the sunshine of his love, his comradeship, his warm approval.
Timidly, she had learnt to live, to laugh, to look about 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 serene consciousness of a power within herself to live up to the ideal her lover had conceived of her.
But now, in his absence, that confidence had been rudely shaken. She had come to perceive that she, who charmed others so easily, could not charm her sullen son. It was part of the penalty she paid for her quick-wittedness, that she could realize herself as Peter saw her, though she was unable to present herself before him in a more favourable light.
"I must be myself—or nobody," she thought despairingly. But Peter wanted her to be once more the meek, plainly dressed, low-spirited, silent being whom Sir Timothy had created; and who was 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 level than Peter's powers of appreciation. Yet it is certain that people can only admire intelligently what is good within their comprehension; and their highest flights of imagination may sometimes scarcely touch mediocrity.
The noblest ideals, the fairest dreams, the subtlest reasoning, the finest ethics, contained in the writings of the mighty dead, meant nothing at all to Sir Timothy. His widow knew that she had never heard him utter one high or noble or selfless thought. But with, perhaps, pardonable egotism, she had taken it for granted that Peter must be different. Whatever his outward humours, he washerson; rather a part of herself, in her loving fancy, than a separate individual.
The moment of awakening had been long in coming to Lady Mary; the moment when a mother has to find out that her personality is not necessarily reproduced in her child; that the being who was once the unconscious consoler of her griefs and troubles may develop a nature perfectly antagonistic to her own.
She had kept her eyes shut with all her might for a long time, but necessity was forcing them open.
Perhaps her association with John Crewys made it easier to see Peter as he was, and not as she had wished him to be.
And yet, she thought miserably to herself, he had certainly tried hard to be affectionate and kind to her—and probably it did not occur to him, as it did to his mother, how pathetic it was that he should have to try.
Peter did not think much about it.
Sometimes, during his short stay at Barracombe, he had walked through a game of croquet with his mother—it was good practice for his left hand—or he listened disapprovingly to something she inadvertently (forgetting he was not John) read aloud for his sympathy or admiration; or he took a short stroll with her; or bestowed his company upon her in some other dutiful fashion. But these filial attentions over, if he yawned with relief—why, he never did so in her presence, and would have been unable to understand that Lady Mary saw him yawning, in her mind's eye, as plainly as though he had indulged this bad habit under her very nose. He bestowed a portion of his time on his aunts in much the same spirit, taking less trouble to be affectionate, because they were less exacting, as he would have put it to himself, than she was.
The scheme of renting a house in London had duly been laid before him, and rejected most decisively by the young gentleman. His father had never taken a house in town, and he could see no necessity for it. His aunts were lost in admiration for their nephew's firmness. Peter had inherited somewhat of his father's dictatorial manner, and their flattery did not tend to soften it. When his aged relatives mispronounced the magic wordkopje, or betrayed their belief that adongawas an inaccessible mountain—he brought the big guns of his heavy satire to bear on the little target of their ignorance without remorse. He mistook a loud voice, and a habit of laying down the law, for manly decision, and the gift of leadership; and imagined that in talking down his mother's gentle protests he had convinced her of his superior wisdom.
When he had made it sufficiently clear, however, that he 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 new outfit of clothes.
Was it possible that his departure brought a dreadful relief to the mother who had prayed day and night, for eight-and-twenty months, that her son might return to her?
She tried and tried, on her knees in her own room, to realize what her feelings would have been if Peter had been killed in South Africa. She tried to recall 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 over these very blue hills, and dumbly beseeching God to spare her boy—her only son—out of all the mothers' sons who were laying down their lives for England.