A terrible thought assailed her now and then, like an ugly spectre that would not be laid—that if Peter had died of his wound—if he had fallen as so many of his comrades had fallen, in the war—he would have been a hero for all time; a glorious memory, safely enshrined and enthroned above all these miserable petty doubts and disappointments. She cast the thought from her in horror and piteous grief, and reiterated always her passionate gratitude for his preservation. But, nevertheless, the living, breathing Peter was a daily and hourly disappointment to the mother who loved him. His ways were not her ways, nor his thoughts her thoughts; and often she felt that she could have found more to say to a complete stranger, and that a stranger would have understood her better.
The old ladies, returning from their drive, generally took a little turn upon the terrace. This constituted half their daily exercise, since their morning walk consisted of a stroll round the kitchen garden.
"It prevents cramp after sitting so long," one would say to the other.
"And it is only right to show the gardener that we take an interest," the other would reply.
The gardener translated the interest they took into a habit of fault-finding, which nearly drove him mad.
"It du spile the vine weather vor I," he would frequently grumble to his greatest crony, James Coachman, who, for his part, bitterly resented the abnormal length of the daily drives. "Zure as vate, when I zits down tu my tea, cumes a message from one are t'other on 'em, an' oop I goes. 'Yu bain't been lukin' round zo careful as 'ee shude; there be a bit o' magnolia as want nailding oop, my gude man.' 'Oh, be there, mum?' zays I. 'Yiss, there be; an' thart I'd carl yure attention tu it,' zess she, are zum zuch. 'Thanky, mum, I'm zure,' zezz I."
"I knows how her goes on," groaned James Coachman.
"Mother toime 'tis zummat else," said the aggrieved gardener. "'Thic 'ere geranum's broke, Willum; but ef yu tuke it vor cuttings, zo vast's iver yu cude, 'twon't take no yarm, Willum. Yu zee as how us du take a turble interest.' Ah! 'tis arl I can du tu putt oop wi' 'un; carling a man from's tea, tu tark zuch vamous vule's tark."
Lady Mary was not much less weary than the gardener and coachman of the old sisters' habits of criticism. But only the shadow of their former power of vexing her remained, now that they could no longer appeal to Sir Timothy to join them in reproving his wife. She was no more to be teased or exasperated into alternate submission and rebellion.
Their cousin John, the administrator of Barracombe, had chosen from the first to place her opinions and wishes above all their protests or advice. They said to each other that John, before he grew tired of her and went away, had spoilt poor dear Mary completely; but their hopes were centred on Peter, who was a true Crewys, and who would soon be his own master, and the master of Barracombe; when he would, doubtless, revert to his father's old ways.
They chose to blame his mother for his sudden departure to London, and remarked that the changes in his home had so wrought upon the poor fellow, that he could not bear to look at them until he had the power of putting them right again.
A deeply resented innovation was the appearance of the tea-table on the lawn before the windows, in the shade of the ilex-grove, which sheltered the western end of the terrace from the low rays of the sun.
During the previous summer, on their return from a drive, they had found their cousin John in his white flannels, and Lady Mary in her black gown, serenely enjoying this refreshment out-of-doors; and the poor old ladies had hardly known how to express their surprise and annoyance.
In vain did their sister-in-law explain that she had desired a second tea to be served in the hall, in their usual corner by the log fireplace.
It had never been the custom in the family. What would Ash say? What would he think? How could so much extra trouble be given to the servants?
"The servants have next to nothing to do," Lady Mary had said; and young John had actually laughed, and explained that he had had a conversation with Ash which had almost petrified that tyrant of the household.
Either Ash would behave himself properly, and carry out orders without grumbling, or he would be superseded.Ashsuperseded!
This John had said with quite unruffled good humour, and with a smile on his face, as though such an upheaval of domestic politics were the simplest thing in the world. Though for years the insolence and the idleness of Ash had been favourite grievances with Lady Belstone and Miss Crewys, they were speechlessly indignant with young John.
Habit had partially inured, though it could never reconcile them, to the appearance of that little rustic table and white cloth in Lady Mary's favourite corner of the terrace; and though they would rather have gone without their tea altogether than partake of it there, they could behold her pouring it out for herself with comparative equanimity.
"I trust you are rested, dear Mary, after your terrible long climb in the woods this morning?"
"It has been very restful sitting here. I hope you had a pleasant drive, Isabella?" "No; it was too hot to be pleasant. We passed the rectory, and there was that idle doctor lolling in the canon's verandah—keeping the poor man from his haymaking. Has the second post come in? Any news of dear Peter?"
"None at all. You know he is not much of a correspondent, and his last letter said he would be back in a few days."
"For my part," said Lady Belstone, "I think Peter will come home the day he attains his majority, and not a moment before."
"He is hardly likely to stay in London through August and September," said Lady Mary, in rather displeased tones.
"Perhaps not in London; but there are other places besides London," said Miss Crewys, significantly. "We met Mrs. Hewel driving.She, poor thing, does not expect to see Sarah before Christmas, if then, from what she told us."
"She should not have let Lady Tintern adopt Sarah if she is to be for ever regretting it. It was her own doing," said Lady Mary.
"That is just what I told her," said Lady Belstone, triumphantly. "Though how she can be regretting such a daughter I cannot conjecture."
"Sarah is a saucy creature," said Miss Crewys. "The last time I saw her she made one of her senseless jokes at me."
"She has no tact," said Lady Belstone, shaking her head; "for when Peter saw you were annoyed, and tried to pass it off by telling her the Crewys family had no sense of humour, instead of saying, 'What nonsense!' she said, 'What a pity!'"
"Her mother was full of a letter from Lady Tintern about some grand lord or other, who wanted to marry Sarah. I did my best to make her understand how very unlikely it was that any man, noble or otherwise, would care to marry a girl with carroty hair."
"I doubt if you succeeded in convincing her, Georgina, though you spoke pretty plain, and I am very far from blaming you for it. But she is ate up with pride, poor thing, because Sarah gets noticed by Lady Tintern's friends, who would naturally wish to gratify her by flattering her niece."
"I am afraid the girl is setting her cap at Peter," said Miss Crewys; "but I took care to let her mother know, casually, what our family would think of such a marriage for him."
"Peter is a boy," said Lady Mary, quickly; "and Sarah, for all practical purposes, is ten years older than he. She is only amusing herself. Lady Tintern is much more ambitious for her than I am for Peter."
"How you talk, Mary!" said Miss Crewys, indignantly. "She is hardly twenty years of age, and the most designing monkey that ever lived. And Peter is a fine young man. A boy, indeed! I hope if she succeeds in catching him that you will remember I warned you."
"I will remember, if anything so fortunate should occur," said Lady Mary, with a faint smile. "I cannot think of any girl in the world whom I would prefer to Sarah as a daughter."
"I, for one, should walk out of this house the day that girl entered it as mistress, let Peter say what he would to prevent me," said Lady Belstone, reddening with indignation.
"I wonder where you would go to?" said Lady Mary, with some curiosity."Of course," she added, hastily, "there is the Dower House."
"I am sure it is very generous of you to suggest the Dower House, dear Mary," said Miss Crewys, softening, "since our poor brother, in his unaccountable will, left it entirely to you, and made no mention of his elder sisters; though we do not complain."
"It is in accordance with custom that the widow should have the Dower House. A widow's rights should be respected; but I thought our names would be mentioned," said Lady Belstone, dejectedly.
"Of course he knew," said Lady Mary, in a low voice, "that Peter's house would be always open to us all, as my boy said himself."
"Dear boy! he has said it to us too," said the sisters, in a breath.
"I don't say that, in my opinion," said Lady Mary, "it would not be wiser to leave a young married couple to themselves; I have always thought so. But Peter would not hear of your turning out of your old home; you know that very well."
"Peter would not; but nothing would inducemeto live under the same roof as that red-haired minx," said Lady Belstone, firmly. "And besides, as you say, my dear Mary, you could not very well live by yourself at the Dower House."
"Since Mary has been so kind as to mention it, there would be many advantages in our accompanying her there, in case Sarah should succeed in her artful aims," said Miss Crewys. "It would be near Peter, and yet nottoonear, and we could keep an eye onher."
"If she does not succeed, somebody else will," said Lady Belstone, sensibly; "and, at least, we know her faults, and can put Peter on his guard against them."
A host of petty and wretched recollections poured into Lady Mary's mind as she listened to these words.
Poor Timothy; poor little hunted, scolded, despairing bride; poor married life—of futile reproaches and foolish quarrelling.
How many small miseries she owed to those ferret searching eyes, and those subtly poisonous tongues! But such miseries lurked in the dull shadows of the past. Standing now in the bright sunshine of the present, she forgave the sisters with all her heart, and thought compassionately of their great age, their increasing infirmities, their feeble hold on life.
Not to them did she owe real sorrow, after all; for nothing that does not touch the heart can reach the fountain of grief.
Peter's hand—the hand she loved best in the world—had set the waters of sorrow flowing not once, but many times; but she had become aware lately of a stronger power than Peter's guarding the spring.
She looked from one sister to the other.
Despite the narrowness of brow, and sharpness of eye and feature, they were both venerable of aspect, as they tottered up and down the terrace where they had played in their childhood and sauntered through youth and middle age to these latter days, when they leant upon silver-headed sticks, and wore dignified silk attire and respectable poke-bonnets.
"Don't you think it would be better," said Lady Mary, slowly, "if you left Peter to find out his wife's faults for himself; whether she be Sarah—or another?"
Torrents of falling rain obscured the valley of the Youle. The grey clouds floated below the ridges of the hills, and wreathed the tree-tops. Against the dim purple of the distance, the October roses held up melancholy, rain-washed heads; and sudden gusts of wind sent little armies of dead, brown leaves racing over the stone pavement of the terrace.
Lady Mary leant her forehead against the window, and gazed out upon the autumn landscape; and John Crewys watched her with feelings not altogether devoid of self-reproach.
Perhaps he had carried his prudent consideration too far.
His reverence for his beautiful lady—who reigned in John's inmost thoughts as both saint and queen—had caused him to determine that she must come to him, when she did come, without a shadow of self-reproach to sully the joy of her surrender, the fulness, of her bliss, in the perfect sympathy and devotion which awaited her.
But John Crewys—though passionately desiring her companionship, and impatient of all barriers, real or imaginary, which divided her from him—yet lived a life very full of work and interest and pleasure on his own account. He was only conscious of his loneliness at times; and when he was as busy as he had been during the early half of this summer, he was hardly conscious of it at all.
He had not fully realized the effect that this time of waiting and uncertainty might have upon her, in the solitude to which he had left her, and which he had at first supposed would be altogether occupied by Peter. Her letters—infrequent as he, in his self-denial, had suggested—were characterized by a delicate reserve and a tacit refusal to take anything for granted in their relations to each other, which half charmed and half tantalized John; but scarcely enlightened him regarding the suspense and sadness which at this time she was called upon to bear.
When he came to Barracombe, he knew that she had suffered greatly during these months of his absence, and reproached himself angrily for blindness and selfishness.
He had spent the first weeks of his long vacation in Switzerland, in order to bring the date of his visit to the Youle Valley as near as possible to the date of Peter's coming of age; but, also, he had been very much overworked, and felt an absolute want of rest and change before entering upon the struggle which he supposed might await him, and for which he would probably need all the good humour and good sense he possessed. So far as he was personally concerned, there was no doubt that his proceedings had been dictated by wisdom and judgment.
The fatigue and irritability, consequent upon too much mental labour, and too little fresh air and exercise, had vanished. John was in good health and good spirits, clear of brain and eye, and vigorous of person, when he arrived at Barracombe; in the mild, wet, misty weather which heralded the approach of a typical Devonshire autumn.
But when he looked at Lady Mary, he knew that he would have been better able to dispense with that holiday interval than she was to have endured it.
She had always been considered marvellously young-looking for her age. The quiet country life she had led had bestowed that advantage upon her; and her beauty, fair as she was, had always been less dependent on colouring than upon the exquisite delicacy of her features and general contour. But now a heaviness beneath the blue eyes,—a little fading of her brightness—a little droop of the beautifully shaped mouth,—almost betrayed her seven and thirty years; and the soft, abundant, brown hair was threaded quite perceptibly with silver. Her sweet face smiled upon him; but the smile was no longer, he thought, joyous—but pathetic, as of one who reproaches herself wonderingly for light-heartedness.
John looked at her in silence, but the words he uttered in his heart were, "I will never leave you any more."
Perhaps his face said everything that he did not say, for Lady Mary had turned from him with a little sob, and leant her forehead on her hands, looking out at the rain which swept the valley. She felt, as she had always felt in John's presence, that here was her champion and her protector and her slave, in one; returned to restore her failing courage and her lost self-confidence.
"So you saw something of Peter in London?" she said tremulously, breaking the silence which had fallen between them after their first greeting. "Please tell me. You know I have seen almost nothing of him since he came home."
"So I gather," said John. "Yes, I saw something—not very much—of Master Peter in London. You see I am not much of a society man;" and he laughed.
"Was Peter a society man?" said his mother, laughing also, but rather sadly.
"He went out a good deal, and was to be met with in most places," John answered.
"I read his name in lists of dances given by people I did not know he had ever heard of. But I did not like to ask him how he managed to get invited. He rather dislikes being questioned," said Lady Mary, describing Peter's prejudices as mildly as possible.
"I fancy Miss Sarah could tell you," said John, with twinkling eyes.
"I did not know—just a girl—could get a stranger, a boy like Peter, invited everywhere," said Lady Mary, innocently.
John laughed. "Peter is a very eligible boy," he said, "and Sarah is not 'just a girl,' but a very clever young woman indeed; and Lady Tintern is a ball-giver. But if he had been the most ordinary of youths, a bachelor's foothold on the dance-lists is the easiest thing in the world to obtain. It means nothing in itself."
"I think it meant a good deal to Peter," said his mother, with a sigh."If only I could think Sarah were in earnest."
"I don't see why not," said John.
Then he came and took Lady Mary's hand, and led her to a seat next the fire.
"Come and sit down comfortably," he said, "and let us talk everything over. It looks very miserable out-of-doors, and nothing could be more delightful than this room, and nobody to disturb us. I want the real history of the last few months. Do you know your letters told me almost nothing?"
The room was certainly delightful, and not the less so for the Chill rain without, which beat against the windows, and enhanced the bright aspect of the scene within.
A little fire burned cheerfully in the polished grate, and cast its glow upon the burnished fender, and the silver ornaments and trifles on a rosewood table beyond. The furniture was bright with old-fashioned glossy chintz; the rose-tinted walls were hung with fine water-colour drawings; the windows with rose-silk curtains.
The hardy outdoor flowers were banished to the oaken hall. Lady Mary's sense of the fitness of things permitted the silver cups and Venetian glasses of this dainty apartment to be filled only with waxen hothouse blooms and maidenhair fern.
She could not but be conscious of the restfulness of her surroundings, and of John's calm, protecting presence, as he placed her tenderly in the corner of the fireside couch, and took his place beside her.
"I don't think the last months have had any history at all," she said dreamily. "I have missed you, John. But that—you know already. I—I have been very lonely—since—since Peter came home. I think it was Sarah who persuaded him to go away again so soon. I believe she laughed at his clothes."
"I suppose theywerea little out of date, and he must surely have outgrown them, besides," said John, smiling.
"I suppose so; anyway, I think it must have been that which put it into his head to go to London and buy more. It was a little awkward for the poor boy, because he had just been scoldingmefor wishing to go to London. But he said he would only be a few days."
"And he stayed to the end of the season?"
"Yes. Of course the aunts put it down to Sarah. I dare say itwasher doing. I don't know why she should wish to rob me of my boy just for—amusement," said Lady Mary, rather resentfully. "But I have not understood Sarah lately; she has seemed so hard and flippant. You are laughing, John? I dare say I am jealous and inconsistent. You are quite right. One moment I want to think Sarah in earnest—and willing to marry my boy; and the next I remember that I began to hate his wife the very day he was born."
"It appears to be the nature of mothers," said John, indulgently. "But you will allowmeto hope for Peter's happiness, and quite incidentally, of course, for our own?"
She smiled. "Seriously, John, I wish you would tell me how he got on in London."
"He dined with me once or twice, as you know," said John, "and was very friendly. I think he was relieved that I made no suggestion of tutors or universities, and that I took his eyeglass for granted. In short, that I treated him as I should treat any other young man of my acquaintance; whereas he had greatly feared I might presume upon my guardianship to give him good advice. But I did not, because he is too young to want advice just now, and prefers, like most of us, to buy his own experience."
"I hope he was really nice to you. You won't hide anything? You'll tell me exactly?"
"I am hiding nothing. The lad is a good lad at bottom, and a manly one into the bargain," said John. "His defects are of the kind which get up, so to speak, and hit you in the eye; and are, consequently, not of a kind to escape observation. What is obviously wrong is easiest cured. He has yet to learn that 'manners maketh man,' but he was learning it as fast as possible. The mistakes of youth are rather pathetic than annoying."
"Sometimes," said Lady Mary.
"He fell, very naturally, into most of the conventional errors which beset the inexperienced Londoner," said John, smiling slightly at the recollection. "He talked in a familiar manner of persons whose names were unknown to him the day before yesterday; and told well-known anecdotes about well-known people whom he hadn't had time to meet, as though they had only just happened. The kind of stories outsiders tell to new-comers. And he professed to be bored at every party he attended. I won't say that thehabituéis always too well bred, or too grateful to his entertainers, to do anything of the kind; but he is certainly too wise or too cautious."
"Perhaps he was bored?" said Lady Mary, wistfully. "Knowing nobody, poor boy."
"The first time I met him on neutral ground was at a dance," said John. "He looked very tall and nervous and lonely, and, of course, he was not dancing; but, nevertheless, he was the hero of the evening, or so Miss Sarah gave me to understand. But you can imagine it for yourself. The war just over, and a young fellow who has lost so much in it; the gallant nephew of the gallant Ferries; besides his own romantic name, and his eligibility. I took him off to the National Gallery, to make acquaintance with the portrait of our cavalier ancestor there; and I declare there is a likeness. Miss Sarah had visited it long ago, it appears. For my part, I am glad to think that these fashionable young women can still be so enthusiastic about a wounded soldier. Sarah said they were all wild to dance with him, and ready to shed tears for his lost arm."
"And was he much with Sarah?"
John laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "Miss Sarah is a star with many satellites. She raised my hopes, however, by appearing to have a few smiles to spare for Peter."
"And she must have got him the invitation to Tintern Castle," saidLady Mary. "That is why he went up to Scotland."
"I see."
"Then she got him another invitation, I suppose, for he went to the next house she stayed at; and to a third place for some yachting."
"What did Lady Tintern say?"
"That's just it. Sarah is in Lady Tintern's black books just now. She is furious with her, Mrs. Hewel tells me, because she has refused Lord Avonwick."
"Hum!" said John. "He has forty thousand a year."
"I don't think money would tempt Sarah to marry a man she did not love," said Lady Mary, reproachfully. "There was Mr. Van Graaf, the African millionaire. She wouldn't look at him, and he offered to settle untold sums upon her."
"Did he? What a brute!"
"Why?"
"Never mind. You've not seen him. I'm glad he found Sarah wasn't for sale. But doesn't all this look as if it were Peter, after all?"
"If only I could think she were in earnest," Lady Mary said again. "But he is such a boy. She has three times his cleverness in some ways, and three times his experience, though she is younger than he. I suppose women mature much earlier than men. It galls my pride when she orders him about, and laughs at him. But he—he doesn't understand."
"Perhaps," said John, slowly, "he understands better than you think. Each generation has a freemasonry of its own. I must confess I have heard scraps of chatter and chaff in ballrooms and theatres which have filled me with amazement, wondering how it could be possible that such poor stuff should pass muster as conversation, or coquetry, or gallantry, with the youths and maidens of to-day. But when I have observed further, instead of an offended fair, or a disillusioned swain, behold! two young heads close together, two young faces sparkling with smiles and satisfaction. And the older person, who would fatuously join in with a sensible remark, spoils all the enjoyment. The fact is, the secret of real companionship is not quality, but equality. There's a punning platitude for you."
"It may be a platitude, but I am beginning to discover that what are called platitudes by the young are biting truths to the old," said Lady Mary. "I've felt it a thousand times. Words come so easily to my lips when I'm speaking to you, I am so certain you will understand and respond. But with Peter, I sometimes feel as though I were dumb or stupid. Perhaps you've been too—too kind; you've understood too quickly. I've been too ready to believe that you've found me—"
"Everything I wanted to find you," interrupted John, tenderly; "and that was something quite out of the common."
She smiled and shook her head. "I am ready to believe all the nice things you can say, as fast as you can say them, when I am withyou" she said, with a raillery rather mournful than gay. "But when I am with Peter, I seem to realize dreadfully that I'm only a middle-aged woman of average capacity, and with very little knowledge of the world. He does his best to teach me. That's funny, isn't it?"
"It's very like—a very young man," said John, gently.
"You mustn't think I'm mocking at my boy—like Sarah," she said vehemently. "Perhaps I am wrong to tell you. Perhaps only a mother would really understand. But it makes me a little sad and bewildered. My boy—my little baby, who lay in my arms and learnt everything from me. And now he looks down and lectures me from such an immense height of superiority, never dreaming that I'm laughing in my heart, because it's only little Peter, after all."
"And he doesn't lecture Sarah?"
"Oh no; he doesn't lecture Sarah. She is too young to be lectured with impunity, and too wise. Besides, I think since he went away, and saw Sarah flattered and spoilt, and queening it among the great people who didn't know him even by sight, that he has realized that their relative positions have changed a good deal. You see, little Sarah Hewel, as she used to be, would have been making quite a great match in marrying Peter. But Lady Tintern's adopted daughter and heiress—old Tintern left an immense fortune to his wife, didn't he?—is another matter altogether. And how could she settle down to this humdrum life after all the excitement and gaiety she's been accustomed to?"
"Women do such things every day. Besides—"
"Yes?"
"Is Peter still so much enamoured of a humdrum life?" said John, dryly.
"I have had no opportunity of finding out; but I am sure he will want to settle down quietly when all this is over—"
"You mean when he's no longer in love with Sarah?"
"He's barely one-and-twenty; it can't last," said Lady Mary.
"I don't know. If she's so much cleverer than he, I'm inclined to think it may," said John.
"Oh, of course, if he married her—it would last," said Lady Mary.
"And then?" said John, smiling.
"Perhapsthen," said Lady Mary; and she laid her hand softly in the strong hand outstretched to receive it.
There was a tap at the door of Lady Mary's bedroom, and Peter's voice sounded without.
"Mother, could I speak to you for a moment?"
"Come in," said Lady Mary's soft voice; and Peter entered and closed the door, and crossed to the oriel window, where she was sitting at her writing-table, before a pile of notes and account books.
Long ago, in Peter's childhood, she had learned to make this bedroom her refuge, where she could read or write or dream, in silence; away from the two old ladies, who seemed to pervade all the living-rooms at Barracombe. Peter had been accustomed all his life to seek his mother here.
She had chosen the room at her marriage, and had had an old-fashioned paper of bunched rosebuds put up there. It was very long and low, and looked eastward into the fountain garden, and over the tree-tops far away to the open country.
The sisters had thought one of the handsome modern rooms of the south front would be more suitable for the bride, but Lady Mary had her way. She preferred the older part of the house, and liked the steps down into her room, the uneven floor, the low ceiling, the quaint window-seats, and the powdering closet where she hung her dresses.
The great oriel window formed almost a sitting-room apart. Here was her writing-table, whereon stood now a green jar of scented arums and trailing white fuchsias.
A bunch of sweet peas in a corner of the window-seat perfumed the whole room, already fragrant with potpourri and lavender.
A low bookcase was filled with her favourite volumes; one shelf with the story-books of her childhood, from which she had long ago read aloud to Peter, on rainy days when he had exhausted all other kinds of amusement; for he had never touched a book if he could help it, therein resembling his father.
In the corner next the window stood the cot where Peter had slept often as a little boy, and which had been playfully designated the hospital, because his mother had always carried him thither when he was ill. Then she had taken him jealously from the care of his attendant, and had nursed and guarded him herself day and night, until even convalescence was a thing of the past. She had never suffered that little cot to be moved; the white coverlet had been made and embroidered by her own hands. A gaudy oleograph of a soldier on horseback—which little Peter had been fond of, and which had been hung up to amuse him during one of those childish illnesses—remained in its place. How often had she looked at it through her tears when Peter was far away! Beside the cot stood a table with a shabby book of devotions, marked by a ribbon from which the colour had long since faded. The book had belonged to Lady Mary's father, young Robbie Setoun, who had become Lord Ferries but one short month before he met with a soldier's death. His daughter said her prayers at this little table, and had carried thither her agony and petitions for her boy in his peril, during the many, many months of the South African War.
The morning was brilliant and sunny, and the upper casements stood open, to let in the fresh autumn air, and the song of the robin balancing on a swaying twig of the ivy climbing the old walls. White clouds were blowing brightly across a clear, blue sky.
Lady Mary stretched out her hand and pulled a cord, which drew a rosy curtain half across the window, and shaded the corner where she was sitting. She looked anxiously and tenderly into Peter's face; her quick instinct gathered that something had shaken him from his ordinary mood of criticism or indifference.
"Are you come to have a little talk with me, my darling?" she said.
She was afraid to offer the caress she longed to bestow. She moved from her stiff elbow-chair to the soft cushions in her favourite corner of the window-seat, and held out a timid hand. Peter clasped it in his own, threw himself on a stool at her feet, and rested his forehead against her knee.
"I have something to tell you, mother, and I am afraid that, when I have told you, you will be disappointed in me; that you will think me inconsistent."
Her heart beat faster. "Which of us is consistent in this world, my darling? We all change with circumstances. We are often obliged to change, even against our wills. Tell me, Peter; I shall understand."
"There's not really anything to tell," said Peter, nervously contradicting himself, "because nothing is exactly settled yet. But I think something might be—before very long, if you would help me to smooth away some of the principal difficulties."
"Yes, yes," said Lady Mary, venturing to stroke the closely cropped black head resting against her lap.
"You know—Sarah—has been teaching me the new kind of croquet, at Hewelscourt, since we came back from Scotland?" he said. "I don't get on so badly, considering."
"My poor boy!"
"Oh, I was always rather inclined to be left-handed; it comes in usefully now," said Peter, who generally hurried over any reference to his misfortune. "Well, this morning, whilst we were playing, I asked Sarah, for the third time, to—to marry me. The third's the lucky time, isn't it?" he said, with a tremulous laugh, "and—and—"
"She said yes!" cried Lady Mary, clasping her hands.
"She didn't go so far as that," said Peter, rather reproachfully. His voice shook slightly. "But she didn't say no. It's the first time she hasn't said no."
"What did she say?" said Lady Mary.
She tried to keep her feelings of indignation and offence against Sarah out of her voice. After all, who was Sarah that she should presume to refuse Peter? Or for the matter of that, to accept him? Either course seems equally unpardonable at times to motherly jealousy, and Lady Mary was half vexed and half amused to find herself not exempt from this weakness.
"Impudent little red-headed thing!" she said to herself, though she loved Sarah dearly, and admired her red hair with all her heart.
"She told me a few of the reasons why she—she didn't want to marry me," said Peter.
Lady Mary's dismay was rather too apparent. "Surely that doesn't sound very hopeful."
Peter moved impatiently. "Oh, mother, it is always so difficult to make you understand."
"Is it, indeed?" she said, with a faint, pained smile. "I do my best, my darling."
"Never mind; I suppose women are always rather slow of comprehension," said the young lord of creation—"that is, except Sarah.Shealways understands. God bless her!"
"God bless her, indeed!" said Lady Mary, gently, and the tears started to her blue eyes, "if she is going to marry my boy."
Peter repented his crossness. "Forgive me, mother. I know you mean to be kind," he said. "You will help me, won't you?"
"With all my heart," she said, anxiously; "only tell me how."
"You see, I can't help feeling," said Peter, bashfully, "that she wouldn't have told me why shecouldn'tmarry me, if she hadn't thought she might bring herself to do it in the end, if I got over the difficulties she mentioned. I've been—hopeful, ever since she refused that ass of an Avonwick, in spite of Lady Tintern. It wants some courage to defy Lady Tintern, I can tell you, though she's such a little object to look at. By George! I'd almost rather walk up to a loaded gun than face that woman's tongue. Of course, even ifmyshare of the difficulties were removed, there'd still be Lady Tintern against us. But if Sarah can defy Lady Tintern in one thing, she might in another. She's afraid of nobody."
"Sarah certainly does not lack courage," said Lady Mary, smiling.
"I never saw anybody like her," said Peter, whose love possessed him, mind, body, and soul. "Why, I've heard her keep a whole roomful of people laughing, and every one of them as dull as ditch-water till she came in. And to see her hold her own against men at games—she's more strength in one of her pretty, white wrists," said Peter, looking with an air of disparagement at his mother's slender, delicate hand, "than you have in your whole body, I do believe."
"She is splendidly strong," said Lady Mary; "the very personification of youth and health." She sighed softly.
"And beauty," said Peter, excitedly. "Don't leave that out. And a good sort, through and through, as evenyoumust allow, mother."
He spoke as though he suspected her of begrudging his praise of Sarah, and she made haste to reply:
"Indeed, she is a good sort, dear little Sarah."
"She is very fond of you," Peter said, in a choking voice. It seemed to him, in his infatuation, so touching that Sarah should be fond of any one. "She was dreadfully afraid of hurting your feelings; but yet, as she said, she was bound to be frank with me."
"Oh, Peter, do tell me what you mean. You are keeping me on thorns," said Lady Mary.
She grew red and white by turns. Was John's happiness in sight already, as well as Peter's?
"It's—it's most awfully hard to tell you," said Peter.
He rose, and leant his elbow against the stone mullion nearest her, looking down anxiously upon her as he spoke.
"After all I said to you when we first came home, it's awfully hard.But if you would only understand, you could make it all easy enough."
"I will—I do understand."
But Peter could not make up his mind even now to be explicit.
"You see," he said, "Sarah is—not like other girls."
"Of course not," said his mother.
She controlled her impatience, reminding herself that Peter was very young, and that he had never been in love before.
"She's a kind of—of queen," said Peter, dreamily. "I only wish you could have seen what it was in London."
"I can imagine it," said Lady Mary.
"No, you couldn't. I hadn't an idea what she would be there, until I went to London and saw for myself," said Peter, who measured everybody's imagination by his own.
"You see," he explained "my position here, which seems so important to you and the other people round here, andusedto seem so important to me—is—just nothing at all compared to what has been cast at her feet, as it were, over and over again, for her to pick up if she chose. And this house," said Peter, glancing round and shaking his head—"this house, which seems so beautiful to you now it's all done up, if you'd onlyseenthe housesshe'saccustomed to staying at. Tintern Castle, for instance—"
"I was born in a greater house than Tintern Castle, Peter," said LadyMary, gently.
"Oh, of course. I'm saying nothing against Ferries," said Peter, impatiently. "But you only lived there as a child. A child doesn't notice."
"Some children don't," said Lady Mary, with that faint, wondering smile which hid her pain from Peter, and would have revealed it so clearly to John.
"It isn't that Sarahmindsthis old house," said Peter; "she was saying what a pretty room she could make of the drawing-room only the other day."
Lady Mary felt an odd pang at her heart. She thought of the trouble John had taken to choose the best of the water-colours for the rose-tinted room—the room he had declared so bright and so charming—of the pretty curtains and chintzes; and the valuable old china she had collected from every part of the house for the cabinets.
"You see, she's got that sort of thing at her fingers' ends, Lady Tintern being such a connoisseur," said the unconscious Peter. "But she's so afraid of hurting your feelings—"
"Why should she be?" said Lady Mary, coldly, in spite of herself. "If she does not like the drawing-room, she can easily alter it."
"That's what I say," said Peter, with a touch of his father's pomposity. "Surely a bride has a right to look forward to arranging her home as she chooses. And Sarah is mad about old French furniture—Louis Seize, I think it is—but I know nothing about such things. I think a man should leave the choice of furniture, and all that, to his wife—especially when her taste happens to be as good as Sarah's."
"I—I think so too, Peter," said Lady Mary.
Her thoughts wandered momentarily into the past; but his eager tones recalled her attention.
"Then you won't mind, so far?" said Peter, anxiously.
"I—why should I mind?" said Lady Mary, starting. "I believe—I have read—that old French furniture is all the rage now." Then she bethought herself, and uttered a faint laugh. "But I'm afraid your aunts might make it a little uncomfortable for her, if she—tried to alter anything. I—go my own way now, and don't mind—but a young bride—does not always like to be found fault with. She might find that relations-in-law are sometimes—a little trying." Lady Mary felt, as she spoke these words, that she was somehow opening a way for herself as well as for Peter. She wondered, with a beating heart, whether the moment had come in which she ought to tell him—
"That's just it," said Peter's voice, breaking in on her thoughts. "That's just what Sarah means, and what I was trying to lead up to; only I'm no diplomatist. But that's one of the greatest objections she has to marrying me, quite apart from disappointing her aunt. I can't blame Lady Tintern," said Peter, with a new and strange humility, "for not thinking me good enough for Sarah; andthat'snot a difficultyIcan ever hope to remove. Sarah is the one to decide that point. But about relations-in-law—it's what I've been trying to tell you all this time." He cleared his throat, which had grown dry and husky. "She says that when she marries she—she intends to have her house to herself."
There was a pause.
"I see," said Lady Mary.
She was silent; not, as Peter thought, with mortification; but because she could not make up her mind what words to choose, in which to tell him that it was freedom and happiness he was thus offering her with both hands; and not, as he thought, loneliness and disappointment.
Twice she essayed to speak, and failed through sheer embarrassment. The second time Peter lifted her hand to his lips. She felt through all her consciousness the shy remorse which prompted that rare caress.
"The—the Dower House," faltered Peter, "is only a few yards away."
A sudden desire to laugh aloud seized Lady Mary. His former words returned upon her memory.
"It's—it's rather damp, isn't it?" she said, in a shaking voice.
He looked into her face, and did not understand the brightness of the smile that was shining through her tears.
"But it's very picturesque," said Peter, "and—and roomy. You and my aunts would be quite snug there; and it could be very prettily decorated, Sarah says."
"Perhaps Sarah would advise us on the subject?" said Lady Mary, unable to resist this thrust.
"I'm sure she'd be delighted," said Peter, simply.
Lady Mary fell back on her cushions and laughed helplessly, almost hysterically.
"I don't see why you should laugh," said Peter, in a rather sore tone."I don't know how it is, but I nevercanunderstand you, mother."
"I see you can't. Never mind, Peter," said Lady Mary. She sat up, and lifted her pretty hands to smooth the soft waves of her brown hair. "So I'm to settle down happily in my Dower House, and take your aunts to live with me?"
"Why, you see," said Peter, "we couldn't very well let the poor old things wander away alone into the world, could we?"
"I think," said Lady Mary, slowly, "that they can take care of themselves. And it is just possible that they may have foreseen—your change of intentions."
"Women can never take care of themselves," said Peter. "And how can they have foreseen? I had no idea myself ofthishappening. But they would be perfectly happy in the Dower House; it is close by, and I could see them very often. It wouldn't be like leaving Barracombe."
"Yes, I think they could be happy there," said Lady Mary. She felt that the moment had come at last. Her heart beat thickly, and her colour came and went. "But iftheywere happily settled at the Dower House," she said slowly, for her agitation was making her breathless, and she did not want Peter to notice it,"—I would willingly give it up to them altogether. It could not matter whetherIwere there or not. Though they are old, they are perfectly able to look after themselves—and other people; and if they were not, they would not likemeto take care of them. They have their own servants and Mrs. Ash. And they have never liked me, Peter, though we have lived together so many years."
"That is nonsense," said Peter, very calmly; "and iftheydon't want you there, mother,Ido. Of course you must live at the Dower House; my father left it to you. And I shall want you more than ever now."
"I don't see how," said Lady Mary.
"Why,we—Sarah and I," said Peter, lingering fondly over the words which linked that beloved name with his own, "if we ever—ifitever came off—we shall naturally be away from home a good deal. I couldn't ask Sarah to tie herself down to this dull old place, could I?"
"I suppose not," said Lady Mary.
"She's accustomed to going about the world a good deal," said Peter.
"No doubt."
"EvenI," said Peter, turning a flushed face towards his mother—"I am too young, as Sarah says—and I feel it myself since I have seen something of the life she lives—to become a complete fixture, like my father was. It's—it's, as Sarah says—it's narrowing. I can see the effects of it upon you all," said Peter, calmly, "when I come back here."
He could not fathom the wistfulness which clouded the blue eyes she lifted to his face.
"It is very narrowing," she said humbly.
"One may devote one's self to one's duties as a landed proprietor," said Peter, with another recurrence of pomposity, "and yet see something of one's fellow-men."
He replaced the eyeglass, and walked up and down the room for a few moments, as though he were pacing a quarter-deck. He looked very tall, and very, very slight and thin; older than his years, tanned and dried by the African sun, which had enhanced his natural darkness. Though he spoke as a boy, he looked like a man. His mother's heart yearned over him.
Peter had taken his lack of perception with him into the heart of South Africa, and brought it back intact. Because his body had travelled many hundreds of miles over land and sea, he believed that his mind had opened in proportion to the distance covered. He knew that men and women of action pick up knowledge of the world without pausing on their busy way; but he did not know that it is to the silent, the sorrowful, and the solitary—to those who have time to listen—that God reveals the secrets of life.
She said to herself that everything about him was dear to her; his grey eyes, that never saw below the surface of things; his thin, brown face; his youthful affectation; the strange, new growth which shaded his long upper lip, and softened the plainness of the Crewys physiognomy, which Peter would not have bartered for the handsomest set of Greek features ever imagined by a sculptor. Even for his faults Lady Mary had a tender toleration; for Peter would not have been Peter without them.
"It would not be fair on Sarah, knowing all London—worth knowing—as she does," said Peter with pardonable exaggeration, "to rob her of the season altogether. We shall go up regularly, every year, if—if she marries me. Of that I am determined, and so"—incidentally—"is she."
"Nothing could be nicer," said Lady Mary, heartily enough to satisfy even Peter.
He spoke with more warmth and naturalness. "She likes to go abroad, mother, too, now and then," he said.
"That would be delightful," said Lady Mary, eagerly. Her blue eyes sparkled. Her interest and enthusiasm were easily roused, after all; and surely these new ideas would make it much easier to tell Peter. "Oh, Peter!" she said, clasping her hands, "Paris—Rome—Switzerland!"
"Wherever Sarah fancies," said Peter, magnanimously. "I can't say I care much. All I am thinking of is—being with her. It doesn't matterwhere, so long as she is pleased. What does anything matter," he said, and his dark face softened as she had never seen it soften yet, "so long as one is with the companion one loves best in the world?"
"It would be—Paradise," said Lady Mary, in a low voice; and she thought to herself resolutely, "I will tell him now."
Peter ceased his walk, and came close to her and took her hand. The emotion had not altogether died out of his voice and face.
"But you are not to think, mother, that I shall ever again be the selfish boy I used to be—the boy who didn't value your love and devotion."
"No, dear, no," she answered, with wet eyes; "I will never think so. We can love each other just the same, perhaps even batter, even though—Oh, Peter—"
But Peter was in no mind to brook interruption. He was burning to pour out his plans for her future, and his own.
"Wherever we may go, and whatever we may be doing," he said emotionally, "it will be a joy and a comfort to me to know that my dear old mother is alwayshere. Taking care of the place and looking after the people, and waiting always to welcome me, with her old sweet smile on her dear old face."
Peter was not often moved to such enthusiasm, and he was almost overcome by his own eloquence in describing this beautiful picture.
Lady Mary was likewise overcome. She sank back once more in her cushioned corner, looking at him with a blank dismay that could not escape even his dull observation. How impossible it was to tell Peter, after all! How impossible he always made it!
"I know you must feel it just at first," he said anxiously; "but you—you can't expect to keep me all to yourself for ever."
She shook her head, and tried to smile.
He grew a little impatient. "After all," he said, "you must be reasonable, mother. Every one has to live his own life."
Then Lady Mary found words. A sudden rush of indignation—the pent-up feelings of years—brought the scarlet blood to her cheeks and the fire to her gentle, blue eyes.
"Every one—butme" she said, trembling violently.
"You!" said Peter, astonished.
She clasped her hands against her bosom to still the panting and throbbing that, it seemed to her, must be evident outwardly, so strong was the emotion that shook her fragile form.
"Every one—but me," she said. "Does it never—strike you—Peter—that I, too, would like to live before I die? Whilst you are living your own life, why shouldn't I be living mine? Why shouldn'tIgo to London, and to Paris, and to Rome, and to Switzerland, or wherever I choose, now that you—you—have set me free?"
"Mother," said Peter, aghast, "are you gone mad?"
"Perhaps I am a little mad," said poor Lady Mary. "People go mad sometimes, who have been too long—in prison—they say." Then she saw his real alarm, and laughed till she cried. "I am not really mad," she said. "Do not be frightened, Peter. I—I was only joking."
"It is enough to frighten anybody when you go on like that," said Peter, relieved, but angry. "Talking of prison, and rushing about all over the world—I see no joke in that."
"Why should I be the only one who must not rush all over the world?" said Lady Mary.
"You must know perfectly well it would be preposterous," said Peter, sullenly, "to break up all your habits, and leave Barracombe and—and all of us—and start a fresh life—at your age. And if this is how you mock at me and all my plans, I'm sorry I ever took you into my confidence at all. I might have known I should repent it," he said; and a sob of angry resentment broke his voice.
"Indeed, I am not mocking at you, Peter," she said, sorely repentant and ashamed of her outburst. "Forgive me, darling! I see it was—not the moment. You do not understand. You are thinking only of Sarah, as is natural just now. It was not the moment for me to be talking of myself."
"You never used to be selfish," said Peter, thawing somewhat, as she threw her arms about him, and rested her head against his shoulder.
She laughed rather sadly. "But perhaps I am growing selfish—in my old age," said Peter's mother.
Later, Lady Mary sought John Crewys in the smoking-room. He sprang up, smiled at her, and held out his hand.
"So Peter has been confiding his schemes to you?"
"How did you know?"
"I only guessed. When a man seeks atête-à-têteso earnestly, it is generally to talk about himself. Did the schemes include—Sarah?"
"They include Sarah—marriage—travelling—London—change of every kind."
"Already!" cried John, "Bravo, Peter! and hurray for one-and-twenty!And you are free?"
"Oh, no; I am not to be free."
"What! Do his schemes include you?"
"Not altogether."
"That is surely illogical, if yours are to include him?"
She smiled faintly. "I am to be always here, to look after the place when he and Sarah are travelling or in London. I am to live with his aunts. He wants to be able to think of me as always waiting here to welcome him home, as—as I have been all his life. Not actually in this house, because—Sarah—my little Sarah—wouldn't like that, it seems; but in the Dower House, close by."
"I see," said John. "How delightfully ingenuous, and how pleasingly unselfish a very young man can sometimes be!"
"Ah! don't laugh at me, John," she said tremulously. "Indeed, just now, I cannot bear it."
"Laugh at you, my queen—my saint! How little you know me!" said John, tenderly. "It was at Peter that I was presuming to smile."
"Is it a laughing matter?" she said wistfully.
"I think it will be, Mary."
"I tried so hard to tell him," said Lady Mary, "but I couldn't.Somehow he made it impossible. He looks upon me as quite, quite old."
John laughed outright. A laugh that rang true even to Lady Mary's sensitive perceptions.
"But didn'tyoulook upon everybody over thirty as, quite old when you were one-and-twenty? I'm sure I did."
"Perhaps. But yet—I don't know. I am his mother. It is natural he should feel so. He made me realize how preposterous it was for me, the mother of a grown-up son, to be thinking selfishly of my own happiness, as though I were a young, fresh girl just starting life."
"I had hoped," said John, quietly, "that you might be thinking a little of my happiness too."
"Oh, John! But your happiness and mine seemed all the same thing," she said ingenuously. "Yet he thinks of my life as finished; and I was thinking of it as though it were beginning all over again. He made me feel so ashamed, so conscience-stricken." She hid her face in her hands. "How could I tell him?"
"I think," said John, "that the time has come when he must be told. I meant to put it off until he attained his majority; but since he has broached the subject of your leaving this house himself, he has given us the best opportunity possible. And I also think—that the telling had better be left to me."