"Bless me!" said the canon.

"Our poor Mary has grown so dependent on John, however, that she will hear nothing against him. One has to mind one's p's and q's," said Lady Belstone.

"He planned the alterations in this very hall," said Miss Crewys, "and the only excuse he offered, so far as I could understand, was that it would amuse poor Mary to carry them out."

"Does a widow wish to be amused?" said Lady Belstone, indignantly.

"And was she amused, dear lady?" asked the canon, anxiously.

"When she saw our horror and dismay she smiled."

"Did you call that a smile, Georgina? I called it a laugh. It takes almost nothing to make her laugh nowadays."

"You would not wish her to be too melancholy," said the canon, almost pleadingly; "one so—so charming, so—"

"Canon Birch," said Lady Belstone, in awful tones, "she is a widow."

The canon was silent, displaying an embarrassment which did not escape the vigilant observation of the sisters, who exchanged a meaning glance.

"Well may you remind us of the fact, Isabella," said Miss Crewys, "for she has discarded the last semblance of mourning."

"Time flies so fast," said the canon, as though impelled to defend the absent. "It is—getting on for three years since poor Sir Timothy died."

"It is but two years and four months," said Miss Crewys.

"It is thirty-three years since the admiral went aloft," said Lady Belstone, who often became slightly nautical in phrase when alluding to her departed husband; "and look at me."

The pocket-handkerchief she held up was deeply bordered with ink. Orthodox streamers floated on either side her severe countenance.

The canon looked and shook his head. He felt that the mysteries of a widow's garments had best not be discussed by one who dwelt, so to speak, outside them.

"Poor Mary can do nothing gradually," said Miss Crewys. "She leapt in a single hour out of a black dress into a white one."

"Her anguish when our poor Timothy succumbed to that fatal operation surpassed even the bounds of decorum," said Lady Belstone, "and yet—she would not wear a cap!"

She appealed to the canon with such a pathetic expression in her small, red-rimmed, grey eyes that he could not answer lightly.

They faced him with anxious looks and drooping, tremulous mouths. They had grown curiously alike during the close association of nearly eighty years, though in their far-off days of girlhood no one had thought them to resemble each other.

Miss Crewys crocheted a shawl with hands so delicately cared for and preserved, that they scarce showed any sign of her great age; her sister wore gloves, as was the habit of both when unoccupied, and she grasped her handkerchief in black kid fingers that trembled slightly with emotion.

The canon realized that the old ladies were seriously troubled concerning their sister-in-law's delinquencies.

"We speak to you, of course, as our clergyman," said Miss Crewys; and the poor gentleman could only bow sympathetically.

"I am an old friend," he said feelingly, "and your confidences are sacred. But I think in your very natural—er—affection for Lady Mary"—the word stuck in his throat—"you are, perhaps, over-anxious. In judging those younger than ourselves," said the canon, gallantly coupling himself with his auditors,' though acutely conscious that he was some twenty years the junior of both, "we must not forget that they recover their spirits, by a merciful dispensation of Providence, more quickly than we should ourselves in the like circumstances," said the canon, who was as light-hearted a cleric as any in England.

"They do, indeed," said Lady Belstone, emphatically; "when they can sing and play all the day and half the night, like our dear Mary and young John."

"You see the piano blocking up the hall, though Sir Timothy hated music?" said Miss Crewys.

Her own mourning was thoughtfully graduated to indicate the time which had elapsed since Sir Timothy's decease. She wore a violet silk of sombre hue, ornamented by a black silk apron and a black lace scarf. The velvet bow which served so very imperfectly as a skull-cap was also violet, intimating a semi-assuaged, but respectfully lengthened, grief for the departed.

"And now this maddest scheme of all," said Miss Crewys.

"Bless me! What mad scheme?"

"A house in London is to be hired as soon as Peter comes home."

"Is that all? But surely that is very natural. For my part, I have often wondered why none of you ever cared to go to London, if only for your shopping. I am very fond of a trip to town myself, now and then, for a few days."

"A few days, it seems, would not suffice our cousin John's notions. He is pleased to think Peter may require skilled medical attendance; and, since he wrote he was in rags, a new outfit. These, it seems, can only be obtained in the Metropolis nowadays. My brother's tailor still lives in Exeter; and with all his faults—and nobody can dislike him more than I do—I have never heard it denied that Dr. Blundell is a skilful apothecary."

"Very skilful," added Miss Crewys. "You remember, Isabella, how quickly he put your poor little Fido out of his agony."

"That is nothing; all doctors understand animals' illnesses. They kill numbers of guinea-pigs before they are allowed to try their hands on human beings," said Lady Belstone. "The point is, that if my poor brother Timothy had not been mad enough to go to London, he would have been alive at this moment. I have never heard of Dr. Blundell finding it necessary—much as I detest the man—to perform an operation on anybody."

"Apart from this painful subject, my dear lady," murmured the canon, "I presume it is only a furnished house that Lady Mary contemplates?"

"During all the years of his married life Sir Timothy never hired a furnished house," said Miss Crewys. "The home of his fathers sufficed him."

"She may want a change?" suggested the canon.

Miss Crewys interpreted him literally. "No; she is in the best of health."

"Better than I have ever seen her, and—and gayer" said Lady Belstone, with emphasis.

"People who are gay and bright in disposition are the very ones who—who pine for a little excitement at times," said the courageous canon. "There is so much to be seen and done and heard in London. For instance, as you say—she is passionately fond of music."

"She gets plenty. We get more than enough," said Miss Crewys, grimly.

"I mean good music;" then he recollected himself in alarm. "No, no; I don't mean hers is not charming, and Mr. John's playing is delightful, but—"

"There is an organ in the parish church," said Miss Crewys, crocheting more busily than ever. "I have heard no complaints of the choir. Have you?"

"No, no; but—besides music, there are so many other things," he said dismally. "She likes pictures, too."

"It does not look like it, canon," said Lady Belstone, sorrowfully. She waved her handkerchief towards the panelled walls. "She has removed the family portraits to the lumber-room."

"At least the Vandyck has never been seen to greater advantage," said the canon, hopefully; "and I hear the gallery upstairs has been restored and supported, to render it safe to walk upon, which will enable you to take pleasure in the fine pictures there."

"I am sadly afraid that it is not pictures that poor Mary hankers after, but theatres," said Miss Crewys. "John has persuaded her, if persuasion was needed, which I take leave to doubt, that there is nothing improper in visiting such places. My dear brother thought otherwise."

"You know I do not share your opinions on that point," said the canon. "Though not much of a theatre-goer myself, still—"

"A widow at the theatre!" said Lady Belstone. "Even in the admiral's lifetime I did not go. Being a sailor, and not a clergyman," she added sternly, "he frequented such places of amusement. But he said he could not have enjoyed a ballet properly with me looking on. His feelings were singularly delicate." "I am afraid people must be talking about dear Mary a good deal, canon," said Miss Crewys, whisking a ball of wool from the floor to her knee with much dexterity.

Her keen eyes gleamed at her visitor through her spectacles, though her fingers never stopped for a moment.

"I hope not. I've heard nothing."

"My experience of men," said Lady Belstone, "is that they never do hear anything. But a widow cannot be too cautious in her behaviour. All eyes are fixed, I know not why, upon a widow," she added modestly.

"We do our best to guard dear Mary's reputation," said Miss Crewys.

The impetuous canon sprang to his feet with a half-uttered exclamation; then recollecting the age and temperament of the speaker, he checked himself and tried to laugh.

"I do not know," he said, "who has said, or ever could say, one single word against that—against our dear and sweet Lady Mary. But if there is any one, I can only say that such word had better not be uttered in my presence, that's all."

"Dear me, Canon Birch, you excite yourself very unnecessarily," said Lady Belstone, with assumed surprise. "You are just confirming our suspicions."

"What suspicions?" almost shouted the canon,

"That our dear Lady Mary's extraordinary partiality for our cousin John has not escaped the observation of a censorious world."

"Though we have done our best never to leave him alone with her for a single moment," interpolated Miss Crewys.

The canon turned rather pale. "There can be no question of censure," he said. "Lady Mary is a very charming and beautiful woman. Who could dare to blame her if she contemplated such a step as—as a second marriage?"

"A second marriage! We said nothing of a second marriage," said Lady Belstone, sharply. "You go a great deal too fast, canon. Luckily, our poor Mary is debarred from any such act of folly. I have no patience with widows who re-marry."

"Debarred from a second marriage!"

"Is it possible you don't know?"

The sisters exchanged meaning glances.

He looked from one to the other in bewilderment.

"If our sister-in-law remarries," said Miss Crewys, "she forfeits the whole of her jointure."

"Is that all?" he cried.

"Is that all!" echoed Miss Crewys, much offended. "It is no less than two thousand a year. In my opinion, far too heavy a charge on poor Peter's estate."

"No man with any self-respect," said Lady Belstone, "would desire to marry a widow without a jointure. I should have formed a low opinion, indeed, of any gentleman who asked me to marry him without first making sure that the admiral had provided for me as he ought, and as he has."

The canon, though mentally echoing the sentiment with much warmth, thought it wiser to change the topic of conversation. Experience had taught him to discredit most of the assumptions of Lady Mary's sisters-in-law, where she was concerned, and he rose in hope of effecting his escape without further ado.

"I believe I am to meet Mr. Crewys at luncheon," he said, "and with your permission I will stroll out into the grounds, and look him up. He told me where he was to be found."

"He is to be found all over the place. He seizes every opportunity of coming down here. I cannot believe in his making so much money in London, when he manages to get away so often. As for Mary, you know her way of inviting people to lunch, and then going out for a walk, or up to her room, as likely as not. But I suppose she will be down directly, if you like to wait here," said Lady Belstone, who had plenty more to say.

"I should be glad of a turn before luncheon," said the canon, who had no mind to hear it. "And there is an hour and a half yet. You lunch at two? I came straight from the school-house, as Lady Mary suggested. I wanted to have a look at the improvements."

"Sarah Hewel is coming to lunch," said Miss Crewys. "I cannot say we approve of her, since she has been out so much in London, and become such a notorious young person."

"It's very odd to me," said the canon, benevolently, "little Sarah growing up into a fashionable beauty. I often see her name in the papers."

"She is exactly the kind of person to attract our cousin John, who is quite foolish about her red hair. In my young days, red hair was just a misfortune like any other," said Miss Crewys. "Dr. Blundell is lunching here also, I need hardly say. Since my dear brother's death we keep open house."

"It used not to be the fashion to encourage country doctors to be tame cats," said Lady Belstone, viciously; "but he pretends to like the innovations, and gets round young John; and inquires after Peter, and pleases Mary."

"Ay, ay; it will be a great moment for her when the boy comes back. A great moment for you all," said the canon, absently.

He stood with his back to the tall leather screen which guarded the entrance to the hall, and did not hear the gentle opening of the great door.

"I trust," said Miss Crewys, "that we are not a family prone to display weak emotion even on the most trying occasions."

"To be sure not," said the canon, disconcerted; "still, I cannot think of it myself without a little—a great deal—of thankfulness for his preservation through this terrible war, now so happily ended. And to think the boy should have earned so much distinction for himself, and behaved so gallantly. God bless the lad! You are well aware," said the canon, blowing his nose, "that I have always been fond of Peter."

"Thank you, canon," said Peter.

For a moment no one was sure that it was Peter, who had come so quietly round the great screen and into the hall, though he stood somewhat in the shadow still.

A young man, looking older than his age, and several inches taller than Peter had been when he went away; a young man deeply tanned, and very wiry and thin in figure; with a brown, narrow face, a dark streak of moustache, a long nose, and a pair of grey eyes rendered unfamiliar by an eyeglass, which was an ornament Peter had not worn before his departure.

The old ladies sat motionless, trembling with the shock; but the canon seized the hand which Peter held out, and, scarcely noticing that it was his left hand, shook it almost madly in both his own.

"Peter! good heavens, Peter!" he cried, and the tears ran unheeded down his plump, rosy cheeks. "Peter, my boy, God bless you! Welcome home a thousand thousand times!"

"Peter!" gasped Lady Belstone. "Is it possible?"

"Why, he's grown into a man," said Miss Crewys, showing symptoms of an inclination to become hysterical.

Peter was aghast at the commotion, and came hurriedly forward to soothe his agitated relatives.

"Is this your boasted self-command, Georgina?" said Lady Belstone, weeping.

"We cannot always be consistent, Isabella. It was the unexpected joy," sobbed Miss Crewys.

"Peter! your arm!" screamed Lady Belstone and she fell back almost fainting upon the sofa.

Peter stood full in the light now, and they saw that he had lost his right arm. The empty sleeve was pinned to his breast.

His aunt tottered towards him. "My poor boy!" she sobbed.

"Oh, that's all right," said Peter, in rather annoyed tones. "I can use my left hand perfectly well. I hardly notice it now."

Something in the tone of this speech caused his aunts to exclaim simultaneously—

"Dear boy, he has not changed one bit!"

"You never told us, Peter," said the canon, huskily.

"I didn't want a fuss," Peter said, very simply, "so I just got the newspaper chap to cork it down about my being shot in the arm, without any details. It had to be amputated first thing, as a matter of fact."

"It has given your aunt Georgina and me a terrible shock," said Lady Belstone, faintly.

"You can't expect a fellow who has been invalided home to turn up without a single scratch," said Peter, in rather surly tones.

"How like his father!" said Miss Crewys.

"Besides, you know very well my mother would have tormented herself to death if I had told her," said Peter. "I want her to see with her own eyes how perfectly all right I am before she knows anything about it."

"It was a noble thought," said the canon.

"Where is she?" demanded Peter.

He seemed about to cross the hall to the staircase but the canon detained him.

"Oughtn't some one to prepare her?"

"Oh, joy never kills," said Peter. "She's quite well, isn't she?"

"Quite well."

"Very well indeed" said Miss Crewys, with emphasis that seemed to imply Lady Mary was better than she had any need to be.

"I have never," said the canon, with a nervous side-glance at Peter, "seen her look so well, nor so—so lovely, nor so—so brilliant. Only your return was needed to complete—her happiness."

Peter looked at the canon through his newly acquired eyeglass with some slight surprise.

"Well," he said, "I wouldn't telegraph. I wanted to slip home quietly, that's the fact; or I knew the place would be turned upside down to receive me."

"The people are preparing a royal welcome for you," said the canon, warmly. "Banners, music, processions, addresses, and I don't know what."

"That's awful rot!" said Peter. "Tell them I hate banners and music and addresses, and everything of the kind."

"No, no, my dear boy," said the canon, in rather distressed tones. "Don't say that, Peter, pray. You must think of their feelings, you know. There's hardly one of them who hasn't sent somebody to the war; son or brother or sweetheart. And all that's left for—for those who stay behind—not always the least hard thing to do for a patriot, Peter—is to honour, as far as they can, each one who returns. They work off some of their accumulated feelings that way, you know; and in their rejoicings they do not forget those who, alas! will never return any more."

There was a pause; and Peter remained silent, embarrassed by the canon's emotion, and not knowing very well how to reply.

"There, there," said the canon, saving him the trouble; "we can discuss it later. You are thinking of your mother now."

As he spoke, they all heard Lady Mary's voice in the corridor above. She was humming a song, and as she neared the open staircase the words of her song came very distinctly to their ears—

Entends tu ma pensee qui le respond tout bas? Ton doux chant me rappelle les plus beaux de mes jours.

"My mother's voice," said Peter, in bewildered accents; and he dropped his eyeglass.

The canon showed a presence of mind that seldom distinguished him.

He hurried away the old ladies, protesting, into the drawing-room, and closed the door behind him.

Peter scarcely noticed their absence.

Ah! le rire fidele prouve un coeur sans detours, Ah! riez, riez—ma belle—riez, riez toujours,

sang Lady Mary.

"I never heard my mother sing before," said Peter.



CHAPTER XI

Lady Mary came down the oak staircase singing. The white draperies of her summer gown trailed softly on the wide steps, and in her hands she carried a quantity of roses. A black ribbon was bound about her waist, and seemed only to emphasize the slenderness of her form. Her brown hair was waved loosely above her brow; it was not much less abundant, though much less bright, than in her girlhood. The freshness of youth had gone for ever; but her loveliness had depended less upon that radiant colouring which had once been hers than upon her clear-cut features, and exquisitely shaped head and throat. Her blue eyes looked forth from a face white and delicate as a shell cameo, beneath finely pencilled brows; but they shone now with a new hopefulness—a timid expectancy of happiness; they were no longer pensive and downcast as Peter had known them best.

The future had been shrouded by a heavy mist of hopelessness always—for Lady Mary. But the fog had lifted, and a fair landscape lay before her. Not bright, alas! with the brightness and the promise of the morning-time; but yet—there are sunny afternoons; and the landscape was bright still, though long shadows from the past fell across it.

Peter saw only that his mother, for some extraordinary reason, looked many years younger than when he had left her, and that she had exchanged her customary dull, old-fashioned garb for a beautiful and becoming dress. He gave an involuntary start, and immediately she perceived him.

She stretched out her arms to him with a cry that rang through the rafters of the hall. The roses were scattered.

"My boy! O God, my darling boy!"

In the space of a flash—a second—Lady Mary had seen and understood. Her arms were round him, and her face hidden upon his empty sleeve. She was as still as death. Peter stooped his head and laid his cheek against her hair; he felt for one fleeting moment that he had never known before how much he loved his mother.

"Forgive me for keeping it dark, mother," he whispered presently; "but I knew you'd think I was dying, or something, if I told you. It had to be done, and I don't care—much—now; one gets used to anything. My aunts nearly had a fit when I came in; but I knew you'd be too thankful to get me home safe and sound, to make a fuss over what can't be helped. It's—it's just the fortune of war."

"Oh, if I could meet the man who did it!" she cried, with fire in her blue eyes.

"It wasn't a man; it was a gun," said Peter. "Let's forget it. I say—doesn't it feel rummy to be at home again?"

"But you have come back a man, Peter. Not a boy at all," said Lady Mary, laughing through her tears. "Do let me look at you. You must be six feet three, surely."

"Barely six feet one in my boots," said Peter, reprovingly.

"And you have a moustache—more or less."

"Of course I have a moustache," said Peter, gravely stroking it. He mechanically replaced his eyeglass.

Lady Mary laughed till she cried.

"Do forgive me, darling. But oh, Peter, it seems so strange. My boy grown into a tall gentleman with an eyeglass. Nothing has happened to your eye?" she cried, in sudden anxiety.

"No, no; I am just a little short-sighted, that is all," he mumbled, rather awkwardly.

He found it difficult to explain that he had travelled home with a distinguished man who had captivated his youthful fancy, and caused him to fall into a fit of hero-worship, and to imitate his idol as closely as possible. Hence the eyeglass, and a few harmless mannerisms which temporarily distinguished Peter, and astonished his previous acquaintance.

But there was something else in Peter's manner, too, for the moment. A new tenderness, which peeped through his old armour of sulky indifference; the chill armour of his boyhood, which had grown something too strait and narrow for him even now, and from which he would doubtless presently emerge altogether—but not yet.

Though Lady Mary laughed, she was trembling and shaken with emotion. Peter came to the sofa and knelt beside her there, and she took his hand in both hers, and laid her face upon it, and they were very still for a few moments.

"Mother dear," said Peter presently, without looking at her, "coming home like this, and not finding my father here, makes me realize for the first time—though it's all so long ago—what's happened."

"My poor boy!"

"Poor mother! You must have been terribly lonely all this time I've been away."

"I've longed for your return, my darling," said Lady Mary.

Her tone was embarrassed, but Peter did not notice that.

"You see—I went away a boy, but I've come back a man, as you said just now," said Peter.

"You're still very young, my darling—not one-and-twenty," she said fondly.

"I'm older than my age; and I've been through a lot; more than you'd think, all this time I've been away. I dare say it hasn't seemed so long to you, who've had no experiences to go through," he said simply.

She kissed him silently.

"Now just listen, mother dear," said Peter, firmly. "I made up my mind to say something to you the very first minute I saw you, and it's got to be said. I'm sorry I used to be such a beast to you—there."

"Oh, Peter!"

"I dare say," said Peter, "that it's all this rough time in South Africa that's made me feel what a fool I used to make of myself, when I was a discontented ass of a boy; that, or being ill, or something, used to—make one think a bit. And that's why I made up my mind to tell you. I know I used to disappoint you horribly, and be bored by your devotion, and all that. But you'll see," said Peter, decidedly, "that I mean to be different now; and you'll forgive me, won't you?"

"My darling, I forgave you long ago—if there was anything to forgive," she cried,

"You know there was," said Peter; and he sounded like the boy Peter again, now that she could not see his face. "Well, my soldiering's done for." A faint note of regret sounded in his voice. "I had a good bout, so I suppose I oughtn't to complain; but I had hoped—however, it's all for the best. And there's no doubt," said Peter, "that my duty lies here now. In a very few months I shall be my own master, and I mean to keep everything going here exactly as it was in my father's time. You shall devote yourself to me, and I'll devote myself to Barracombe; and we'll just settle down into all the old ways. Only it will be me instead of my father—that's all."

"You instead of your father—that's all," echoed Lady Mary. She felt as though her mind had suddenly become a blank.

"I used to rebel against poor papa," said Peter, remorsefully. "But now I look back, I know he was just the kind of man I should like to be."

She kissed his hand in silence. Her face was hidden.

"I want you—and my aunts, to feel that, though I am young and inexperienced, and all that," said Peter, tenderly, "there are to be no changes."

"But, Peter," said his mother, rather tremulously, "there are—sure to be—changes. You will want to marry, sooner or later. In your position, you are almost bound to marry."

"Oh, of course," said Peter. He released his hand gently, in order to stroke the cherished moustache. "But I shall put off the evil day as long as possible, like my father did."

"I see," said Lady Mary. She smiled faintly.

"And when it does arrive," said Peter, "my wife will just have to understand that she comes second. I've no notion of being led by the nose by any woman, particularly a young woman. I'm sure my father never dreamt of putting his sisters on one side, or turning them out of their place, when he married you, did he?"

"Never," said Lady Mary.

"Of course they were snappish at times. I suppose all old people get like that. But, on the whole, you managed to jog along pretty comfortably, didn't you?"

"Oh yes," said Lady Mary. "We jogged along pretty comfortably."

"Then don't you see how snug we shall be?" said Peter, triumphantly. "I can tell you a fellow learns to appreciate home when he has been without one, so to speak, for over two years. And home wouldn't be home without you, mother dear."

Lady Mary sank suddenly back among the cushions. Her feelings were divided between dismay and self-reproach. Yet she was faintly amused too—amused at Peter and herself. Her boy had returned to her with sentiments that were surely all that a mother could desire; and yet—yet she felt instinctively that Peter was Peter still; that his thoughts were not her thoughts, nor his ways her ways. Then the self-reproach began to predominate in Lady Mary's mind. How could she criticize her boy, her darling, who had proved himself a son to be proud of, and who had come back to her with a heart so full of love and loyalty?

"And you couldn't live without me, could you?" said Peter, affectionately; and he laughed. "I suppose you meant to go into that little, damp, tumble-down Dower House, and watch over me from there; now didn't you, mummy?"

"I—I thought, when you came of age," faltered Lady Mary, "that I should give up Barracombe House to you, naturally. I could come and stay with you sometimes—whether you were married or not, you know. And—and, of course, the Dower House does belong to me."

"I won't hear of your going there," said Peter, stoutly, "whether I'm married or not. It's a beastly place."

"It's very picturesque," said Lady Mary, guiltily; "and I—I wasn't thinking of living there all the year round."

"Why, where on earth else could you have gone?" he demanded, regarding her with astonishment through the eyeglass.

"There are several places—London," she faltered.

"London!" said Peter; "but my father had a perfect horror of London. He wouldn't have liked it at all."

"He belonged—to the old school," said Lady Mary, meekly; "to younger people, perhaps—an occasional change might be pleasant and profitable."

"Oh! to younger people," said Peter, in mollified tones. "I don't say I shall never run up to London. I dare say I shall be obliged, now and then, on business. Not often though. I hate absentee landlords, as my father did."

"Travelling is said to open the mind," murmured Lady Mary, weakly pursuing her argument, as she supposed it to be.

"I've seen enough of the world now to last me a lifetime," said Peter, in sublime unconsciousness that any fate but his own could be in question.

"I didn't think you would have changed so much as this, Peter," she said, rather dismally. "You used to find this place so dull."

"I know I used," Peter agreed; "but oh, mother, if you knew how sick I've been now and then with longing to get back to it! I made up my mind a thousand times how it should all be when I came home again; and that you and me would be everything in the world to each other, as you used to wish when I was a selfish boy, thinking only of getting away and being independent. I'm afraid I used to be rather selfish, mother?"

"Perhaps you were—a little," said Lady Mary.

"You will never have to complain of that again," said Peter.

She looked at him with a faint, pathetic smile.

"I shall take care of you, and look after you, just as my father used to do," said Peter. "Now you rest quietly here"—and he gently laid her down among the cushions on the sofa—"whilst I take a look round the old place."

"Let me come with you, darling."

"Good heavens, no! I should tire you to death. My father never liked you to go climbing about."

"I am much more active than I used to be," said Lady Mary.

"No, no; you must lie down, you look quite pale." Peter's voice took an authoritative note, which came very naturally to him. "The sudden joy of my return has been too much for you, poor old mum."

He leant over her fondly, and kissed the sweet, pale face, and then regarded her in a curious, doubtful manner.

"You're changed, mother. I can't think what it is. Isn't your hair done differently—or something?"

Poor Lady Mary lifted both hands to her head, and looked at him with something like alarm in her blue eyes.

"Is it? Perhaps it is," she faltered. "Don't you like it, Peter?"

"I like the old way best," said Peter.

"But this is so much more becoming, Peter."

"A fellow doesn't care," said Peter, loftily, "whether his mother's hair is becoming or not. He likes to see her always the same as when he was a little chap."

"It is—sweet of you, to have such a thought," murmured Lady Mary. She took her courage in both hands. "But the other way is out of fashion, Peter."

"Why, mother, you never used to follow the fashions before I went away; you won't begin now, at your age, will you?"

"At my age" repeated Lady Mary, blankly. Then she looked at him with that wondering, pathetic smile, which seemed to have replaced already, since Peter came home, the joyousness which had timidly stolen back from her vanished youth. "At my age!" said Lady Mary; "you are not very complimentary, Peter."

"You don't expect a fellow to pay compliments to his mother," said Peter, staring at her. "Why, mother, what has come to you? And besides—"

"Besides?"

"I'm sure papa hated compliments, and all that sort of rot," Peter blurted out, in boyish fashion. "Don't you remember how fond he was of quoting, 'Praise to the face is open disgrace'?"

The late Sir Timothy, like many middle-class people, had taken a compliment almost as a personal offence; and regarded the utterer, however gracious or sincere, with suspicion. Neither had the squire himself erred on the side of flattering his fellow-creatures.

"Oh yes, I remember," said Lady Mary; and she rose from the sofa.

"Why, what's the matter?" asked Peter. "I haven't vexed you, have I?"

She turned impetuously and threw her arms round him as he stood by the hearth, gazing down upon her in bewilderment.

"Vexed with my boy, my darling, my only son, on the very day when God has given him back to me?" she cried passionately. "My poor wounded boy, my hero! Oh no, no! But I want only love from you to-day, and no reproaches, Peter."

"Why, I wasn't dreaming of reproaching you, mother." He hesitated. "Only you're a bit different from what I expected—that's all."

"Have I disappointed you?"

"No, no! Only I—well, I thought I might find you changed, but in a different way," he said, half apologetically. "Perhaps older, you know, or—or sadder."

Lady Mary's white face flushed scarlet from brow to chin; but Peter, occupied with his monocle, observed nothing.

"I'd prepared myself for that," he said, "and to find you all in black. And—"

"I threw off my mourning," she murmured, "the very day I heard you were coming home." She paused, and added hurriedly, "It was very thoughtless. I'm sorry; I ought to have thought of your feelings, my darling."

"Aunt Isabella has never changed hers, has she?" said Peter.

"Aunt Isabella is a good deal more conventional than I am; and a great many years older," said Lady Mary, tremulously.

"I don't see what that has to do with it," said Peter.

She turned away, and began to gather up her scattered roses. A few moments since the roses had been less than nothing to her. What were roses, what was anything, compared to Peter? Now they crept back into their own little place in creation; their beauty and fragrance dumbly conveyed a subtle comfort to her soul, as she lovingly laid one against another, until a glowing bouquet of coppery golden hue was formed. She lifted an ewer from the old dresser, and poured water into a great silver goblet, wherein she plunged the stalks of her roses. Why should they be left to fade because Peter had come home?

"You remember these?" she said, "from the great climber round my bedroom window? I leant out and cut them—little thinking—"

Peter signified a gloomy assent. He stood before the chimneypiece watching his mother, but not offering to help her; rather as though undecided as to what his next words ought to be.

"Peter, darling, it's so funny to see you standing there, so tall, and so changed—" But though it was so funny the tears were dropping from her blue eyes, which filled and overflowed like a child's, without painful effort or grimaces. "You—you remind me so of your father," she said, almost involuntarily.

"I'm glad I'm like him," said Peter.

She sighed. "How I used to wish you were a little tiny bit like me too!"

"But I'm not, am I?"

"No, you're not. Not one tiny bit," she answered wistfully. "But you do love me, Peter?"

"Haven't I proved I love you?" said Peter; and she perceived that his feelings were hurt. "Coming back, and—and thinking only of you, and—and of never leaving you any more. Why, mother"—for in an agony of love and remorse she was clinging to him and sobbing, with her face pressed against his empty sleeve—"why, mother," Peter repeated, in softened tones, "of course I love you."

The drawing-room door was cautiously opened, and Peter's aunts came into the hall on tiptoe, followed by the canon.

"Ah, I thought so," said Lady Belstone, in the self-congratulatory tones of the successful prophet, "it has been too much for poor Mary. She has been overcome by the joy of dear Peter's return."



CHAPTER XII

"Try my salts, dear Mary," said Miss Crewys, hastening to apply the remedies which were always to be found in her black velvet reticule.

"I blame myself," said the canon, distressfully—"I blame myself. I should have insisted on breaking the news to her gently."

Lady Mary smiled upon them all. "On the contrary," she said, "I was offering, not a moment ago, to take Peter round and show him the improvements. We have been so much occupied with each other that he has not had time to look round him."

"I wish he may think them improvements, my love," said Lady Belstone.

Miss Crewys, joyously scenting battle, hastened to join forces with her sister.

"We are far from criticizing any changes your dear mother may have been induced to make," she said; "but as your Aunt Isabella has frequently observed to me, what can a Londoner know of landscape gardening?"

"A Londoner?" said Peter.

"Your guardian, my boy," said the canon, nervously. "He has slightly opened out the views; that is all your good aunt is intending to say."

Peter's good aunt opened her mouth to contradict this assertion indignantly, but Lady Mary broke in with some impatience.

"I do not mean the trees. Of course the house was shut in far too closely by the trees at the back and sides. We wanted more air, more light, more freedom." She drew a long breath and flung out her hands in unconscious illustration. "But there are many very necessary changes that—that Peter will like to see," said Lady Mary, glancing almost defiantly at the pursed-up mouths and lowered eyelids of the sisters.

Peter walked suddenly into the middle of the banqueting-hall and looked round him.

"Why, what's come to the old place? It's—it's changed somehow. What have you been doing to it?" he demanded.

"Don't you—don't you like it, Peter?" faltered Lady Mary. "The roof was not safe, you know, and had to be mended, and—and when it was all done up, the furniture and curtains looked so dirty and ugly and inappropriate. I sent them away and brought down some of the beautiful old things that belonged to your great-grandmother, and made the hall brighter and more livable."

Peter examined the new aspect of his domain with lowering brow.

"I don't like it at all," he announced, finally. "I hate changes."

The sisters breathed again. "So like his father!"

Their allegiance to Sir Timothy had been transferred to his heir.

"Your guardian approved," said Lady Mary.

She turned proudly away, but she could not keep the pain altogether out of her voice. Neither would she stoop to solicit Peter's approval before her rejoicing opponents.

"Mr. John Crewys is a very great connoisseur," said the canon. He taxed his memory for corroborative evidence, and brought out the result with honest pride. "I believe, curiously enough, that he spends most of his spare time at the British Museum."

Lady Mary's lip quivered with laughter in the midst of her very real distress and mortification.

But the argument appeared to the canon a most suitable one, and he was further encouraged by Peter's reception of it.

"If my guardian approves, I suppose it's all right," said the young man, with an effort. "My father left all that sort of thing in his hands, I understand, and he knew what he was doing. I say, where's that great vase of wax flowers that used to stand on the centre table under a glass shade?"

"Darling," said Lady Mary, "it jarred so with the whole scheme of decoration."

"I am taking care of that in my room, Peter," said Miss Crewys.

"And the stuffed birds, and the weasels, and the ferrets that I was so fond of when I was a little chap. You don't mean to say you've done away with those too?" cried Peter, wrathfully.

"They—they are in the gun-room," said Lady Mary. "It seemed such a—such—an appropriate place for them."

"I believe," said the canon, nervously, "that stuffing is no longer considered decorative. After all, why should we place dead animals in our sitting-rooms?"

He looked round with the anxious smile of the would-be peacemaker.

"They were very much worm-eaten, Peter," said Lady Mary. "But if you would like them brought back—"

Perhaps the pain in her voice penetrated even Peter's perception, for he glanced hastily towards her.

"It doesn't matter," he said magnanimously. "If you and my guardian decided they were rotten, there's an end of it. Of course I'd rather have things as they used to be; but after all this time, I expect there's bound to be a few changes." He turned from the contemplation of the hall to face his relatives squarely, with the air of an autocrat who had decreed that the subject was at an end.

"By-the-by," said Peter, "where is John Crewys? They told me he was stopping here."

"He will be in directly," said Lady Mary, "and Sarah Hewel ought to be here presently too. She is coming to luncheon."

"Sarah!" said Peter. "I should like to see her again. Is she still such a rum little toad? Always getting into scrapes, and coming to you for comfort?"

"I think," said Lady Mary, and her blue eyes twinkled—"I think you may be surprised to see little Sarah. She is grown up now."

"Of course," said Peter. "She's only a year younger than I am."

Lady Mary wondered why Peter's way of saying of course jarred upon her so much. He had always been brusque and abrupt; it was the family fashion. Was it because she had grown accustomed to the tactful and gentle methods of John Crewys that it seemed to have become suddenly such an intolerable fashion? Sir Timothy had quite honestly believed tactfulness to be a form of insincerity. He did not recognize it as the highest outward expression of self-control. But Lady Mary, since she had known John Crewys, knew also that it is consideration for the feelings of others which causes the wise man to order his speech carefully.

The canon shook his head when Peter stated that Miss Hewel was his junior by a twelvemonth.

"She might be ten years older," he said, in awe-struck tones. "I have always heard that women were extraordinarily adaptable, but I never realized it before. However, to be sure, she has seen a good deal more of the world than you have. More than most of us, though in such a comparatively short space of time. But she is one in a thousand for quickness."

"Seen more of the world than I have?" said Peter, astonished. "Why, I've been soldiering in South Africa for over two years."

"I don't think soldiering brings much worldly wisdom in its train. I should be rather sorry to think it did," said Lady Mary, gently. "But Sarah has been with Lady Tintern all this while."

"A very worldly woman, indeed, from all I have heard," said Miss Crewys, severely.

"But a very great lady," said Lady Mary, "who knows all the famous people, not only in England, but in Europe. The daughter of a viceroy, and the wife of a man who was not only a peer, and a great landowner, but also a distinguished ambassador. And she has taken Sarah everywhere, and the child is an acknowledged beauty in London and Paris. Lady Tintern is delighted with her, and declares she has taken the world by storm."

"We never thought her a beauty down here," said Peter, rather contemptuously.

"Perhaps we did not appreciate her sufficiently down here," said Lady Mary, smiling.

"Why, who is she, after all?" cried Peter.

"A very beautiful and self-possessed young woman, and Lady Tintern's niece, 'whom not to know argues yourself unknown,'" said Lady Mary, laughing outright. "John says people were actually mobbing her picture in the Academy; he could not get near it."

"I mean," said Peter, almost sulkily, "that she's only old Colonel Hewel's daughter, whom we've known all our lives."

"Perhaps one is in danger of undervaluing people one has known all one's life," said Lady Mary, lightly.

Peter muttered something to the effect that he was sorry to hear Sarah had grown up like that; but his words were lost in the tumultuous entry of Dr. Blundell, who pealed the front door bell, and rushed into the hall, almost simultaneously.

His dark face was flushed and enthusiastic. He came straight to Peter, and held out his hand.

"A thousand welcomes, Sir Peter. Lady Mary, I congratulate you. I came up in my dog-cart as fast as possible, to let you know the people are turning out en masse to welcome you. They're assembling at the Crewys Arms, and going to hurry up to the house in a regular procession, band and all."

"We're proud of our young hero, you see," said the canon; and he laid his hand affectionately on Peter's shoulder.

"You will have to say a few words to them," said Lady Mary.

"Must I?" said the hero. "Let's go out on the terrace and see what's going on. We can watch them the whole way up."

He opened the door into the south drawing-rooms; and through the open windows there floated the distant strains of the village band.

"Canon, your arm," said Lady Belstone.

Lady Mary and her son had hastened out on to the terrace.

The old ladies paused in the doorway; they were particular in such matters.

"I believe I take precedence, Georgina," said Lady Belstone, apologetically.

"I am far from disputing it, Isabella," said Miss Crewys, drawing back with great dignity. "You are the elder."

"Age does not count in these matters. I take precedence, as a married woman. Will you bring up the rear, Georgina, as my poor admiral would have said?"

Miss Crewys bestowed a parting toss of the head upon the doctor, and followed her victorious sister.

The doctor laughed silently to himself, standing in the pretty shady drawing-room; now gay with flowers, and chintz, and Dresden china.

"I wonder if she would not have been even more annoyed with my presumption if I had offered her my arm," he said to himself, amusedly, "than she is offended by my neglect to do so?"

He did not follow the others into the blinding sunshine of the terrace. He had had a long morning's work, and was hot and tired. He looked at his watch.

"Past one o'clock; h'm! we are lucky if we get anything to eat before half-past two. All the servants have run out, of course. No use ringing for whisky and seltzer. All the better. But, at least, one can rest."

The pleasantness of the room refreshed his spirit. The interior of his own house in Brawnton was not much more enticing than the exterior. The doctor had no time to devote to such matters. He sat down very willingly in a big armchair, and enjoyed a moment's quiet in the shade; glancing through the half-closed green shutters at the brilliant picture without.

The top level of the terrace garden was carpeted with pattern beds of heliotrope, and lobelia, and variegated foliage. Against the faint blue-green of the opposite hill rose the grey stone urns on the pillars of the balcony; and from the urns hung trailing ivy geraniums with pink or scarlet blossom, making splashes of colour on the background of grey distance. Round the pillars wound large blue clematis, and white passion-flowers.

Lady Mary stood full in the sunshine, which lent once more the golden glory of her vanished youth to her brown hair, and the dazzle of new-fallen snow to her summer gown.

Close to her side, touching her, stood the young soldier; straight and tall, with uncovered head, towering above the little group.

The old sisters had parasols, and the canon wore his shovel hat; but the doctor wasted no time in observing their manifestations of delight and excitement.

"So my beautiful lady has got her precious boy back safe and sound, save for his right arm, and doubly precious because that is missing. God bless her a thousand times!" he thought to himself. "But her sweet face looked more sorrowful than joyful when I came in. What had he been saying, I wonder, to make her look like that, already?"

John Crewys entered from the hall. "What's this I hear," he said, in glad tones—"the hero returned?"

"Ay," said the doctor. "Sir Timothy is forgotten, and Sir Peter reigns in his stead."

"Where is Lady Mary?"

The doctor drew him to the window. "There," he said grimly. "Why don't you go out and join her?"

"She has her son," said John, smiling.

He looked with interest at the group on the terrace; then he started back with an exclamation of horror.

"Why, good heavens—"

"Yes," said the doctor quietly, "the poor fellow has lost his right arm."

There was a sound of distant cheering, and the band could be heard faintly playing the Conquering Hero.

"He said nothing of it," said John.

"No; he's a plucky chap, with all his faults."

"Has he so many faults?" said John.

The doctor shook his head. "I'm mistaken if he won't turn out a chip of the old block. Though he's better-looking than his father, he's got Sir Timothy's very expression."

"He's turned out a gallant soldier, anyway," said John, cheerily. "Don't croak, Blundell; we'll make a man of him yet."

"Please God you may, for his mother's sake," said the doctor; and he returned to his armchair.

John Crewys stood by the open French window, and drank in the refreshing breeze which fluttered the muslin curtains. His calm and thoughtful face was turned away from the doctor, who knew very well why John's gaze was so intent upon the group without.

"Shall I warn him, or shall I let it alone?" thought Blundell. "I suppose they have been waiting only for this. If that selfish cub objects, as he will—I feel very sure of that—will she be weak enough to sacrifice her happiness, or can I trust John Crewys? He looks strong enough to take care of himself, and of her."

He looked at John's decided profile, silhouetted against the curtain, and thought of Peter's narrow face. "Weak but obstinate," he muttered to himself. "Shrewd, suspicious eyes, but a receding chin. What chance would the boy have against a man? A man with strength to oppose him, and brains to outwit him. None, save for the one undoubted fact—the boy holds his mother's heart in the hollow of his careless hands."

There was a tremendous burst of cheering, no longer distant, and the band played louder.

Lady Mary came hurrying across the terrace. Weeping and agitated, and half blinded by her tears, she stumbled over the threshold of the window, and almost fell into John's arms. He drew her into the shadow of the curtain.

"John," she cried; she saw no one else. "Oh, I can't bear it! Oh, Peter, Peter, my boy, my poor boy!"

The doctor, with a swift and noiseless movement, turned the handle of the window next him, and let himself out on to the terrace.

When John looked up he was already gone. Lady Mary did not hear the slight sound.

"Oh, John," she said, "my boy's come home—but—but—"

"I know," John said, very tenderly.

"I was afraid of breaking down before them all," she whispered. "Peter was afraid I should break down, and I felt my weakness, and came away."

"To me," said John.

His heart beat strongly. He drew her more closely into his arms, deeply conscious that he held thus, for the first time, all he loved best in the world.

"To you," said poor Lady Mary, very simply; as though aware only of the rest and support that refuge offered, and not of all of its strangeness. "Alas! it has grown so natural to come to you now."

"It will grow more natural every day," said John.

She shook her head. "There is Peter now," she said faintly. Then, looking into his face, she realized that John was not thinking of Peter.

For a moment's space Lady Mary, too, forgot Peter. She leant against the broad shoulder of the man who loved her; and felt as though all trouble, and disappointment, and doubt had slidden off her soul, and left her only the blissful certainty of happy rest.

Then she laid her hand very gently and entreatingly on his arm.

"I will not let you go," said John. "You came to me—at last—of your own accord, Mary."

She coloured deeply and leant away from his arm, looking up at him in distress.

"I could not help it, John," she said, very simply and naturally. "But oh, I don't know if I can—if I ought—to come to you any more."

"What do you mean?" said John.

"I—we—have been thinking of Peter as a boy—as the boy he was when he went away," she said, in low, hurrying tones; "but he has come home a man, and, in some ways, altogether different. He never used to want me; he used to think this place dull, and long to get away from it—and from me, for that matter. But now he's—he's wounded, as you know; maimed, my poor boy, for life; and—and he's counting on me to make his home for him. We never thought of that. He says it wouldn't be home without me; and he asked my pardon for being selfish in the past; my poor Peter! I used to fear he had such a little, cold heart; but I was all wrong, for when he was so far away he thought of me, and was sorry he hadn't loved me more. He's come home wanting to be everything to me, as I am to be everything to him. And I should have been so glad, so thankful, only two years ago. Oh, have I changed so much in two little years?"

John put her out of his arms very gently, and walked towards the window. His face was pale, but he still smiled, and his hazel eyes were bright.

"You're angry, John," said Lady Mary, very sweetly and humbly. "You've a right to be angry."

"I am not angry," he said gently. "I may be—a little—disappointed." He did not look round.

"You know I was too happy," said poor Lady Mary. She sank into a chair, and covered her face with her hands. "It was wicked of me to be so happy, and now I'm going to be punished for it."

John's great heart melted within him. He came swiftly back to her and knelt by her side, and kissed the little hand she gave him.

"Too happy, were you?" he said, with a tenderness that rendered his deep voice unsteady. "Because you promised to marry me when Peter came home?"

"That, and—and everything else," she whispered. "Life seemed to have widened out, and grown so beautiful. All the dull, empty hours were filled. Our music, our reading, our companionship, our long walks and talks, our letters to each other—all those pleasures which you showed me were at once so harmless and so delightful. And as if that were not enough—came love. Such love as I had only dreamed of—such understanding of each other's every thought and word, as I did not know was possible between man and woman—or at least"—she corrected herself sadly—"between any man and a woman—of my age."

"You talk of your age," said John, smiling tenderly, "as though it were a crime."

"It is not a crime, but it is a tragedy," said Lady Mary. "Age is a tragedy to every woman who wants to be happy."

"No more, surely, than to every man who loves his work, and sees it slipping from his grasp," said John, slowly. "It's a tragedy we all have to face, for that matter."

"But so much later," said Lady Mary, quickly.

"I don't see why women should leave off wanting to be happy any sooner than men," he said stoutly.

"But Nature does," she answered.

John's eyes twinkled. "For my part, I am thankful to fate, which caused me to fall in love with a woman only ten years my junior, instead of with a girl young enough to be my daughter. I have gained a companion as well as a wife; and marvellously adaptive as young women are, I am conceited enough to think my ideas have travelled beyond the ideas of most girls of eighteen; and I am not conceited enough to suppose the girl of eighteen would not find me an old fogey very much in the way. Let boys mate with girls, say I, and men with women."

Lady Mary smiled in spite of herself. "You know, John, you would argue entirely the other way round if you happened to be in love with—Sarah," she said.

"To be sure," said John; "it's my trade to argue for the side which retains my services. I am your servant, thank Heaven, and not Sarah's. And I have no intention of quitting your service," he added, more gravely. "We have settled the question of the future."

"The empty future that suddenly grew so bright," said Lady Mary, dreamily. "Do you remember how you talked of—Italy?"

"Where we shall yet spend our honeymoon," said John. "But I believe you liked better to hear of my shabby rooms in London which you meant to share."

"Of course," she said simply. "I knew I should bring you so little money."

"And you thought barristers always lived from hand to mouth, and made no allowance for my having got on in my profession."

"Ah! what did it matter?"

"I think you will find it makes just a little difference," John said, smiling.

"Outside circumstances make less difference to women than men suppose," said Lady Mary. "They are, oh, so willing to be pampered in luxury; and, oh, so willing to fly to the other extreme, and do without things."

"Are they really?" said John, rather dryly.

He glanced at the little, soft, white hand he held, and smiled. It looked so unfitted to help itself.

Lady Mary was resting in her armchair, her delicate face still flushed with emotion. A transparent purple shade beneath the blue eyes betrayed that she had been weeping; but she was calmed by John's strong and tranquil presence. The shady room was cool and fragrant with the scent of heliotrope and mignonette.

The band had reached a level plateau below the terrace garden, and was playing martial airs to encourage stragglers in the procession, and to give the principal inhabitants of Youlestone time to arrive, and to regain their wind after the steep ascent.

Every time a batch of new arrivals recognized Peter's tall form on the terrace, a fresh burst of cheering rose.

From all sides of the valley, hurrying figures could be seen approaching Barracombe House.

The noise and confusion without seemed to increase the sense of quiet within, and the sounds of the gathering crowd made them feel apart and alone together as they had never felt before.

"So all our dreams are to be shattered," said John, quietly, "because your prayer has been granted, and Peter has come home?"

"If you could have heard all he said," she whispered sadly. "He has come home loving me, trusting me, dependent on me, as he has never been before, since his babyhood. Don't you see—that even if it breaks my heart, I couldn't fail my boy—just now?"

There was a pause, and she regarded him anxiously; her hands were clasped tightly together in the effort to still their trembling, her blue eyes looked imploring.

John knew very well that it lay within his powers to make good his claim upon that gentle heart, and enforce his will and her submission to it. But the strongest natures are those which least incline to tyranny; and he had already seen the results of coercion upon that bright and joyous, but timid nature. He knew that her love for him was of the fanciful, romantic, high-flown order; and as such, it appealed to every chivalrous instinct within him. Though his love for her was, perhaps, of a different kind, he desired her happiness and her peace of mind, as strongly as he desired her companionship and the sympathy which was to brighten his lonely life. He was silent for a moment, considering how he should act. If love counselled haste, common sense suggested patience.

"I couldn't disappoint him now. You see that, John?" said the anxious, gentle voice.

"I am afraid I do see it, Mary," he said. "Our secret must remain our secret for the present."

"God bless you, John!" said Lady Mary, softly. "You always understand."

"I am old enough, at least, to know that happiness cannot be attained by setting duty aside," he said, as cheerfully as he could.

There was a pause in the music outside, and a voice was heard speaking.

John rose and straightened himself.

"Have you decided what is to be done—what we had best do?" she said timidly.

"I am going to prove that a lover can be devoted, and yet perfectly reasonable; in defiance of all tradition to the contrary," he said gaily. "I shall return to town as soon as I can decently get away—probably to-morrow."

She uttered a cry. "You are going to leave me?"

"I must give place to Peter."

She came to his side, and clung to his arm as though terrified by the success of her own appeal.

"But you'll come back?"

"I have to account for my stewardship when Peter comes of age in the autumn," he said, smiling down upon her.

She was too quick of perception not to know that strength, and courage, too, were needed for the smile wherewith John strove to hide a disappointment too deep for words. He answered the look she gave him; a look which implored forgiveness, understanding, even encouragement.

"I'm not yielding a single inch of my claim upon you when the time comes, my darling; only I think, with you, that the time has not come yet. I think Peter may reasonably expect to be considered first for the present; and that you should be free to devote your whole attention to him, especially as he has such praiseworthy intentions. We will postpone the whole question until the autumn, when he comes of age; and when I shall, consequently, be able to tackle him frankly, man to man, and not as one having authority and abusing that same," he laughed. "Meantime, we must be patient. Write often, but not so often as to excite remark; and I shall return in the autumn."

"To stay?"

"Ah!" said John, "that depends on you."

He had not meant to be satirical, but the slight inflection of his tone cut Lady Mary to the heart.

Her vivid imagination saw her conduct in its worst light: vacillating, feeble, deserting the man she loved at the moment she had led him to expect triumph; dismissing her faithful servant without his reward. Then, in a flash, came the other side of the picture—the mother of a grown-up son—a wounded soldier dependent on her love—seeking her personal happiness as though there existed no past memories, no present duties, to hinder the fulfilling of her own belated romance.

"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 is my worst enemy."



CHAPTER XIII

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 to you," sobbed Sarah, "the day you were to have been so happy, to see him come back like that! 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 you must be 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 bebe 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 an enfant terrible still," said Lady Mary; but Sarah was not so easily disarmed.

"I will know! Come, I'm your godchild, and you always spoil me. He's not 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't that which made you so unhappy, what was it?" She bent puzzled brows upon her embarrassed hostess.

"Let me go, Sarah; you ask too much!" said Lady Mary. "Oh no, my darling, I'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. "But why is 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 wants you to 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 mean that sort 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 of my reach, you know, if she were—an angel in heaven, instead of being what she is—an angel on earth. It is—of her that 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—liked her," said Sarah, in a low voice; "but, then, so does everybody. I wasn't sure—I couldn't believe that she—"

"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 if I can help it."

"You!" said the doctor, shrugging his shoulders rather rudely. "I don't see what you can 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 tell me." 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 Lady Mary.

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 for me" 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 see you!" 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.

"Who doesn't want Lady Mary?" he said to himself, forlornly.



CHAPTER XIV

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 in Sarah.

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.