Sarah!

It was difficult to be sentimental on the subject, but difficulties are easily surmounted by a lover; and though Sarah's childhood afforded few facilities for ecstatic reverie, still—there had been moments, and especially towards the end of the holidays, when he and Sarah had walked on the banks of the river, with arms round each other's necks, sharing each other's toffee and confidences.

Poor Sarah had been first despatched to a boarding school as unmanageable, at the age of seven, and thereafter her life had been a changeful one, since her father could not live without her, and her mother would not keep her at home. She had always presented a lively contrast to her elder brothers, who were all that a parent's heart could desire, and too old to be much interested in their little rebellious sister.

Her high spirits survived disgrace and punishment and periodical banishment. Though not destitute of womanly qualities, she was more remarkable for hoydenish ones; and her tastes were peculiar and varied. If there were a pony to break in, a sick child to be nursed, a groom to scold, a pig to be killed—there was Sarah; but if a frock to try on, a visit to be paid, a note to be written—where was she?

Peter, recalling these things, tried to laugh at himself for his extraordinary infatuation of the previous day; but he knew very well in his heart that he could not really laugh, and that he had lain awake half the night thinking of her.

Sarah had spent the rest of the day at Barracombe after Peter's return, and had been escorted home late in the evening. Could he ever forget those moments on the terrace, when she had paced up and down beside him, in the pleasant summer darkness; her white neck and arms gleaming through transparent black tulle; sometimes listening to the sounds of music and revelry in the village below, and looking at the rockets that were being let off on the river-banks; and sometimes asking him of the war, in that low voice which thrilled Peter as it had already thrilled not a few interested hearers before him?

Those moments had been all too few, because John Crewys also had monopolized a share of Miss Sarah's attention. Peter did not dislike his guardian, whose composed courtesy and absolute freedom from self-consciousness, or any form of affectation, made it difficult indeed not to like him. His remarks made Peter smile in spite of himself, though he could not keep the ball of conversation rolling like Miss Sarah, who was not at all afraid of the great counsel, but matched his pleasant wit, with a most engaging impudence all her own.

Lady Mary had stood clasping her son's arm, full of thankfulness for his safe return; but she, too, had been unable to help laughing at John, who purposely exerted himself to amuse her and to keep her from dwelling upon their parting on the morrow.

Her thoughtful son insisted that she must avoid exposure to the night air, and poor Lady Mary had somewhat ruefully returned to the society of the old ladies within; but John Crewys did not, as he might, and as Peter had supposed he would, join the other old folk. Peter classed his mother and aunts together, quite calmly, in his thoughts. He listened to Sarah's light talk with John, watching her like a man in a dream, hardly able to speak himself; and it is needless to say that he found her chatter far more interesting and amusing than anything John could say.

Who could have dreamt that little Sarah would grow up into this bewitching maiden? There was a girl coming home on board ship, the young wife of an officer, whom every one had raved about and called so beautiful. Peter almost laughed aloud as he contrasted Sarah with his recollections of this lady.

How easy it was to talk to Sarah! How much easier than to his mother; whom, nevertheless, he loved so dearly, though always with that faint dash of disapproval which somehow embittered his love.

He could not shake off the impression of her first appearance, coming singing down the oak staircase, in her white gown. His mother! Dressed almost like a girl, and, worst of all, looking almost like a girl, so slight and white and delicate. Peter recollected that Sir Timothy had been very particular about his wife's apparel. He liked it to be costly and dignified, and she had worn stiff silks and poplins inappropriate to the country, but considered eminently suited to her position by the Brawnton dressmaker. And her hair had been parted on her forehead, and smoothed over her little ears. Sir Timothy did not approve of curling-irons and frippery.

Peter did not know that his mother had cried over her own appearance often, before she became indifferent; and if he had known, he would have thought it only typical of the weakness and frivolity which he had heard attributed to Lady Mary from his earliest childhood.

His aunts were not intentionally disloyal to their sister-in-law; but their disapproval of her was too strong to be hidden, and they regarded a little boy as blind and deaf to all that did not directly concern his lessons or his play. Thus Peter had grown up loving his mother, but disapproving of her, and the disapproval was sometimes more apparent than the love.

After breakfast the new squire took an early walk with his guardian, and inspected a few of the changes which had taken place in the administration of his tiny kingdom. Though Peter was young and inexperienced, he could not be blind to the immense improvements made.

He had left a house and stables shabby and tumble-down and out of repair; rotting woodwork, worn-off paint, and missing tiles had been painfully evident. Broken fences and hingeless gates were the rule, and not the exception, in the grounds.

Now all deficiencies had been made good by a cunning hand that had allowed no glaring newness to be visible; a hand that had matched old tiles, and patched old walls, and planted creepers, and restored an almost magical order and comfort to Peter's beautiful old house.

Where Sir Timothy's grumbling tenants had walked to the nearest brook for water, they now found pipes brought to their own cottage doors. The home-farm, stables, yards, and cowsheds were drained and paved; fallen outbuildings replaced, uneven roads gravelled and rolled; dead trees removed, and young ones planted, shrubberies trimmed, and views long obscured once more opened out.

Peter did not need the assurances of Mr. Crawley to be aware that his inheritance would be handed back to him improved a thousand-fold.

He was astounded to find how easily John had arranged matters over which his father had grumbled and hesitated for years. Even the dispute with the Crown had been settled by Mr. Crawley without difficulty, now that Sir Timothy's obstinacy no longer stood in the way of a reasonable compromise.

John Crewys had faithfully carried out the instructions of the will; and there were many thousands yet left of the sum placed at his disposal for the improvements of the estate; a surplus which would presently be invested for Peter's benefit, and added to that carefully tied-up capital over which Sir Timothy had given his heir no discretionary powers.

Peter spent a couple of hours walking about with John, and took an intelligent interest in all that had been done, from the roof and chimney-pots of the house, to the new cider-mill and stable fittings; but though he was civil and amiable, he expressed no particular gratitude nor admiration on his return to the hall, where his mother eagerly awaited him.

It consoled her to perceive that he was on excellent terms with his guardian, offering to accompany him in the dog-cart to Brawnton, whither John was bound, to catch the noon express to town.

"You will have him all to yourself after this," said John Crewys, smiling down upon Lady Mary during his brief farewell interview, which took place in the oriel window of the banqueting-hall, within sight, though not within hearing, of the two old sisters. "I am sorry to take him off to Brawnton, but I could hardly refuse his company."

"No, no; I am only glad you should take every opportunity of knowing him better," she said.

"And you will be happier without any divided feelings at stake," he said. "Give yourself up entirely to Peter for the next three or four months, without any remorse concerning me. For the present, at least, I shall be hard at work, with little enough time to spare for sentiment." There was a tender raillery in his tone, which she understood. "When I come back we will face the situation, according to circumstances. By-the-by, I suppose it is not to be thought of that Miss Sarah should prolong her Whitsuntide holidays much further?"

"She ought to have returned to town earlier, but Mrs. Hewel was ill," said Lady Mary. "She is a tiresome woman. She moved heaven and earth to get rid of poor Sarah, and, now the child has had a succes, she is always clamouring for her to come back."

"Ah!" said John, thoughtfully, "and you will moot to Peter the scheme for taking a house in town? But I should advise you to be guided by his wishes over that. Still, it would be very delightful to meet during our time of waiting; and that would be the only way. I won't come down here again until I can declare myself. It is a—false position, under the circumstances."

"I know; I understand," said Lady Mary; "but I am afraid Peter won't want to stir from home. He is so glad to be back, poor boy, one can hardly blame him; and he shares his father's prejudices against London."

"Does he, indeed?" said John, rather dryly. "Well, make the most of your summer with him. You will get only too much London—in the near future."

"Perhaps," Lady Mary said, smiling.

But, in spite of herself, John's confidence communicated itself to her.

When Peter and John had departed, Lady Mary went and sat alone in the quiet of the fountain garden, at the eastern end of the terrace. The thick hedges and laurels which sheltered it had been duly thinned and trimmed, to allow the entrance of the morning sunshine. Roses and lilies bloomed brightly round the fountain now, but it was still rather a lonely and deserted spot, and silent, save for the sighing of the wind, and the tinkle of the dropping water in the stone basin.

A young copper beech, freed from its rankly increasing enemies of branching laurel and encroaching bramble, now spread its glory of transparent ruddy leaf in the sunshine above trim hedges, here and there diversified by the pale gold of a laburnum, or the violet clusters of a rhododendron in full flower. Rare ferns fringed the edges of the little fountain, where diminutive reptiles whisked in and out of watery homes, or sat motionless on the brink, with fixed, glassy eyes.

Lady Mary had come often to this quiet corner for rest and peace and solitude in days gone by. She came often still, because she had a fancy that the change in her favourite garden was typical of the change in her life,—the letting-in of the sunshine, where before there had been only deepest shade; the pinks and forget-me-nots which were gaily blowing, where only moss and fungi had flourished; the blooming of the roses, where the undergrowth had crossed and recrossed withered branches above bare, black soil.

She brought her happiness here, where she had brought her sorrow and her repinings long ago.

A happiness subdued by many memories, chastened by long anxiety, obscured by many doubts, but still happiness.

There was to be no more of that heart-breaking anxiety. Her boy had been spared to come home to her; and John—John, who always understood, had declared that, for the present, at least, Peter must come first.

The whole beautiful summer lay before her, in which she was to be free to devote herself to her wounded hero. She must set herself to charm away that shadow of discontent—of disapproval—that darkened Peter's grey eyes when they rested upon her; a shadow of which she had been only too conscious even before he went to South Africa.

She made a thousand excuses for him, after telling herself that he needed none.

Poor boy! he had been brought up in such narrow ways, such an atmosphere of petty distrust and fault-finding and small aims. Even his bold venture into the world of men had not enabled him to shake off altogether the influence of his early training, though it had changed him so much for the better; it had not altogether cured Peter of his old ungraciousness, partly inherited, and partly due to example.

But he had returned full of love and tenderness and penitence, though his softening had been but momentary; and when she had brought him under the changed influences which now dominated her own life, she could not doubt that Peter's nature would expand.

He should see that home life need not necessarily be gloomy; that all innocent pleasures and interests were to be encouraged, and not repressed. If he wanted to spend the summer at home—and after his long absence what could be more natural?—she would exert herself to make that home as attractive as possible. Why should they not entertain? John had said there was plenty of money. Peter should have other young people about him. She remembered a scene, long ago, when he had brought a boy of his own age in to lunch without permission. She would have to let Peter understand how welcome she should make his friends; he must have many more friends now. While she was yet chatelaine of Barracombe, it would be delightful to imbue him with some idea of the duties and pleasures of hospitality. Lady Mary's eyes sparkled at the thought of providing entertainment for many young soldiers, wounded or otherwise. They should have the best of everything. She was rich, and Peter was rich, and there was no harm in making visitors welcome in that great house, and filling the rooms, that had been silent and empty so long, with the noise and laughter of young people.

She would ask Peter about the horses to-morrow. John had purposely refrained from filling the stables which had been so carefully restored and fitted. There were very few horses. Only the cob for the dog-cart, and a pair for the carriage, so old that the coachman declared it was tempting Providence to sit behind them. They were calculated to have attained their twentieth year, and were driven at a slow jog-trot for a couple of hours every day, except Sundays, in the barouche. James Coachman informed Lady Belstone and Miss Crewys that either steed was liable to drop down dead at any moment, and that they could not expect the best of horses to last for ever; but the old ladies would neither shorten nor abandon their afternoon drive, nor consent to the purchase of a new pair. They continued to behave as though horses were immortal.

Sir Timothy's old black mare was turned out to graze, partly from sentiment, and partly because she, too, was unfitted for any practical purposes; and Peter had outgrown his pony before he went away, though he had ridden it to hounds many times, unknown to his father. Lady Mary thought it would be a pleasure to see her boy well mounted and the stables filled. John had said that the loss of his arm would certainly not prevent Peter from riding. She found herself constantly referring to John, even in her plans for Peter's amusement.

Strong, calm, patient John—who was prepared to wait; and who would not, as he said, snatch happiness at the expense of other people's feelings. How wise he had been to agree that, for the present, she must devote herself only to Peter! She and Peter would be all in all to each other as Peter himself had suggested, and as she had once dreamed her son would be to his mother; though, of course, it was not to be expected that a boy could understand everything, like John.

She must make great allowances; she must be patient of his inherited prejudices; above all, she must make him happy.

Afterwards, perhaps, when Peter had learned to do without her—as he would learn too surely in the course of nature—she would be free to turn to John, and put her hand in his, and let him lead her whithersoever he would.

Peter saw his guardian off at Brawnton, dutifully standing at attention on the platform until the train had departed, instead of starting home as John suggested.

When he came out of the station he stood still for a moment, contemplating the stout, brown cob and the slim groom, who was waiting anxiously to know whether Sir Peter would take the reins, or whether he was to have the honour of driving his master home.

"I think I'll walk back, George," said Peter, with a nonchalant air. "Take the cob along quietly, and let her ladyship know directly you get in that I'm returning by Hewelscourt woods, and the ferry."

"Very good, Sir Peter," said the youth, zealously.

"It would be only civil to look in on the Hewels as Sarah is going back to town so soon," said Peter to himself. "And it's rot driving all those miles on the sunny side of the river, when it's barely three miles from here to Hewelscourt and the ferry, and in the shade all the way. I shall be back almost as soon as the cart."

A little old lady, dressed in shabby black silk, looked up from the corner of the sofa next the window, when Peter entered the drawing-room at Hewelscourt, after the usual delay, apologies, and barking of dogs which attends the morning caller at the front door of the average country house.

Peter, who had expected to see Mrs. Hewel and Sarah, repented himself for a moment that he had come at all when he beheld this stranger, who regarded him with a pair of dark eyes that seemed several times too large for her small, wrinkled face, and who merely nodded her head in response to his awkward salutation.

"Ah!" said the old lady, rather as though she were talking to herself, "so this is the returned hero, no doubt. How do you do? The rejoicing over your home-coming kept me awake half the night."

Peter was rather offended at this free-and-easy method of address. It seemed to him that, since the old lady evidently knew who he was, she might be a little more respectful in her manner.

"The festivities were all over soon after eleven," he said stiffly. "But perhaps you are accustomed to early hours?"

"Perhaps I am," said the old lady; she seemed more amused than abashed by Peter's dignity of demeanour. "At any rate, I like my beauty sleep to be undisturbed; more especially in the country, where there are so many noises to wake one up from four o'clock in the morning onwards."

"I have always understood," said Peter, who inherited his father's respect for platitudes, "that the country was much quieter than the town. I suppose you live in a town?"

"I suppose I do," said the old lady.

Peter put up his eyeglass indignantly, to quell this disrespectful old woman with a frigid look, modelled upon the expression of his board-ship hero.

The door opened suddenly.

He dropped his eyeglass with a start. But it was only Mrs. Hewel who entered, and not Sarah, after all.

Her embonpoint, and consequently her breathlessness, had much increased since Peter saw her last.

"Oh, Peter," she cried, "this is nice of you to come over and see us so soon. We were wondering if you would. Dear, dear, how thankful your mother must be! I know what I was with the boys—and decorated and all—though poor Tom and Willie got nothing; but, as the papers said, it wasn't always those who deserved it most—still, I'm glad you got something, anyway; it's little enough, I'm sure, to make up for—" Then she turned nervously to the old lady. "Aunt Elizabeth, this is Sir Peter Crewys, who came home last night."

"I have already made acquaintance with Sir Peter, since you left me to entertain him," said the old lady, nodding affably.

"Lady Tintern arrived unexpectedly by the afternoon train yesterday," explained Mrs. Hewel, in her flustered manner, turning once more to Peter. "She has only been here twice before. It was such a surprise to Sarah to find her here when she came back."

Peter grew very red. Who could have supposed that this shabby old person, whom he had endeavoured to snub, was the great Lady Tintern?

"She didn't find me," said the old lady. "I was in bed long before Sarah came back. I presume this young gentleman escorted her home?"

"I always send a servant across for Sarah whenever she stays at all late at Barracombe, and always have," said Mrs. Hewel, in hurried self-defence. "You must remember we are old friends; there never was any formality about her visits to Barracombe."

"My guardian and I walked down to the ferry, and saw her across the river, of course," said Peter, rather sulkily.

"But her maid was with her," cried Mrs. Hewel.

"Of course," Peter said again, in tones that were none too civil.

After all, who was Lady Tintern that she should call him to task? And as if there could be any reason why her oldest playmate should not see Sarah home if he chose.

At the very bottom of Peter's heart lurked an inborn conviction that his father's son was a very much more important personage than any Hewel, or relative of Hewel, could possibly be.

"That was very kind of you and your guardian," said the old lady, suddenly becoming gracious. "Emily, I will leave you to talk to your old friend. I dare say I shall see him again at luncheon?"

"I cannot stay to luncheon. My mother is expecting me," said Peter.

He would not express any thanks. What business had the presuming old woman to invite him to luncheon? It was not her house, after all.

"Oh, your mother is expecting you," said Lady Tintern, whose slightly derisive manner of repeating Peter's words embarrassed and annoyed the young gentleman exceedingly. "I am glad you are such a dutiful son, Sir Peter."

She gathered together her letters and her black draperies, and tottered off to the door, which Peter, who was sadly negligent of les petits soins forgot to open for her; nor did he observe the indignant look she favoured him with in consequence.

Sarah came into the drawing-room at last; fresh as the morning dew, in her summer muslin and fluttering, embroidered ribbons; with a bunch of forget-me-nots, blue as her eyes, nestling beneath her round, white chin. Her bright hair was curled round her pretty ears and about her fair throat, but Peter did not compare this coiffure to a fashion plate, though, indeed, it exactly resembled one. Neither did he cast the severely critical glance upon Sarah's toilette that he had bestowed upon the soft, grey gown, and the cluster of white moss-rosebuds which poor Lady Mary had ventured to wear that morning.

"How have you managed to offend Aunt Elizabeth, Peter?" cried Sarah, with her usual frankness. "She is in the worst of humours."

"Sarah!" said her mother, reprovingly.

"Well, but she is," said Sarah. "She called him a cub and a bear, and all sorts of things."

She looked at Peter and laughed, and he laughed back. The cloud of sullenness had lifted from his brow as she appeared.

Mrs. Hewel overwhelmed him with unnecessary apologies. She could not grasp the fact that her polite conversation was as dull and unmeaning to the young man as Sarah's indiscreet nothings were interesting and delightful.

"I'm sure I don't mind," said Peter; and his tone was quite alert and cheerful. "She told me the country kept her awake. If she doesn't like it, why does she come?"

"She has come to fetch me away," said Sarah. "And she came unexpectedly, because she wanted to see for herself whether mamma was really ill, or whether she was only shamming."

"Sarah!"

"And she has decided she is only shamming," said Sarah. "Unluckily, mamma happened to be down in the stables, doctoring Venus. You remember Venus, her pet spaniel?"

"Of course."

"Nothing else would have taken me off my sofa, where I ought to be lying at this moment, as you know very well, Sarah," cried Mrs. Hewel, showing an inclination to shed tears.

"To be sure you ought," said Sarah; "but what is the use of telling Aunt Elizabeth that, when she saw you with her own eyes racing up and down the stable-yard, with a piece of raw meat in your hand, and Venus galloping after you."

"The vet said that if she took no exercise she would die," said Mrs. Hewel, tearfully, "and neither he nor Jones could get her to move. Not even Ash, though he has known her all her life. I know it was very bad for me; but what could I do?"

"I wish I had been there," said Sarah, giggling; "but, however, Aunt Elizabeth described it all to me so graphically this morning that it is almost as good as though I had been."

"She should not have come down like that, without giving us a notion," said Mrs. Hewel, resentfully.

"If she had only warned us, you could have been lying on a sofa, with the blinds down, and I could have been holding your hand and shaking a medicine-bottle," said Sarah. "That is how she expected to find us, she said, from your letters."

"I am sure I scarcely refer to my weak health in my letters," said Mrs. Hewel, plaintively, "and it is natural I should like my only daughter to be with me now and then. Aunt Elizabeth has never had a child herself, and cannot understand the feelings of a mother."

Sarah and Peter exchanged a fleeting glance. She shrugged her shoulders slightly, and Peter looked at his boots. They understood each other perfectly.

Freshly to the recollection of both rose the lamentations of a little red-haired girl, banished from the Eden of her beloved home, and condemned to a cheap German school. Mrs. Hewel, in her palmiest days, had never found it necessary to race up and down the stable-yard to amuse Sarah; and when her only daughter developed scarlatina, she had removed herself and her spaniels from home for months to escape infection.

"Here is papa," said Sarah, breaking the silence. "He was so vexed to be out when you arrived yesterday. He heard nothing of it till he came back."

Colonel Hewel walked in through the open window, with his dog at his heels. He was delighted to welcome his young neighbour home. A short, sturdy man, with red whiskers, plentiful stiff hair, and bright, dark blue eyes. From her father Sarah had inherited her colouring, her short nose, and her unfailing good spirits.

"I would have come over to welcome you," he said, shaking Peter's hand cordially, "only when I came home there was all the upset of Lady Tintern's arrival, and half a hundred things to be done to make her sufficiently comfortable. And then I would have come to fetch Sarah after dinner, only I couldn't be sure she mightn't have started; and if I'd gone down by the road, ten to one she'd have come up by the path through the woods. So I just sat down and smoked my pipe, and waited for her to come back. You'll stay to lunch, eh, Peter?"

"I must get back to my mother, sir," said Peter. His respect for Sarah's father, who had once commanded a cavalry regiment, had increased a thousand-fold since he last saw Colonel Hewel. "But won't you—I mean she'd be very glad—I wish you'd come over and dine to-night, all of you—as you could not come yesterday evening?"

Thus Peter delivered his first invitation, blushing with eagerness.

"I'm afraid we couldn't leave Lady Tintern—or persuade her to come with us," said the colonel, shaking his head. Then he brightened up. "But as soon as she and Sally have toddled back to town I see no reason why we shouldn't come, eh, Emily?" he said, turning to his wife.

Peter looked rather blank, and a laugh trembled on Sarah's pretty lips.

"You know I'm not strong enough to dine out, Tom," said his wife, peevishly. "I can't drive so far, and I'm terrified of the ferry at night, with those slippery banks."

"Well, well, there's plenty of time before us. Later on you may get better; and I don't suppose you'll be running away again in a hurry, eh, Peter?" said the colonel. "I'm told you made a capital speech yesterday about sticking to your home, and living on your land, as your father, poor fellow, did before you."

"I wish Sarah felt as you do, Peter," said Mrs. Hewel; "but, of course, she has grown too grand for us, who live contentedly in the country all the year round. Her home is nothing to her now, it seems; and the only thing she thinks of is rushing back to London again as fast as she can."

Sarah, contrary to her wont, received this attack in silence; but she bestowed a fond squeeze on her father's arm, and cast an appealing glance at Peter, which caused the hero's heart to leap in his bosom.

"Of course I mean to live at Barracombe," said Peter, polishing his eyeglass with reckless energy. "But I said nothing to the people about living there all the year round. On the contrary, I think it more probable that I shall—run up to town myself, occasionally—just for the season."



CHAPTER XV

On a perfect summer afternoon in mid-July, Lady Mary sat in the terrace garden at Barracombe, before the open windows of the silent house, in the shade of the great ilex; sometimes glancing at the book she held, and sometimes watching the haymakers in the valley, whose voices and laughter reached her faintly across the distance.

Some boys were playing cricket in a field below. She noted idly that the sound of the ball on the bat travelled but slowly upward, and reached her after the striker had begun to run. The effect was curious, but it was not new to her, though she listened and counted with idle interest.

The old sisters had departed for their daily drive, which she daily declined to share, having no love for the high-road, and much for the peace which their absence brought her.

It was an afternoon which made mere existence a delight amid such surroundings.

Long shadows were falling across the bend of the river, below the wooded hill which faced the south-west; whilst the cob-built, whitewashed cottages, and the brown, square-towered church lay full in sunshine still. The red cattle stood knee-deep in the shallows, and an old boat was moored high and dry upon the sloping red banks.

The air was sweet with a thousand mingled scents of summer flowers: carnations, stocks, roses, and jasmine. The creamy clusters of Perpetual Felicity rioted over the corner turret of the terrace, where a crumbling stair led to the top of a small, half-ruined observatory, which tradition called the look-out tower.

Flights of steps led downwards from the garden, where the bedded-out plants blazed in all their glory of ordered colour, to the walks on the lower levels. Here were long herbaceous borders, backed by the mighty sloping walls of old red sandstone, which, like an ancient fortification, supported the terrace above.

The blue larkspur flourished beside scarlet gladioli, feather-headed spirea, and hardy fuchsia. There were no straight lines, nor any order of planting. The Madonna lilies stood in groups, lifting up on thin, ragged stems their pure and spotless clusters, and overpowering with their heavy scent the fainter fragrance of the mignonette. Tall, green hollyhocks towered higher yet, holding the secret of their loveliness, until these should wither; when they too would burst into blossom, and forestall the round-budded dahlia.

In the silence, many usually unheeded sounds made themselves very plainly heard.

The tapping of the great magnolia-leaves upon the windows of the south front; the rustling of the ilex; the ceaseless murmur of the river; the near twittering or distant song of innumerable birds; the steady hum of the saw-mill below; the call of the poultry-woman at the home-farm, and the shrieking response of a feathered horde flying and fighting for their food—sounds all so familiar as to pass unnoticed, save in the absence of companionship.

As Lady Mary mused alone, she could not but recall other summer afternoons, when she had not felt less lonely because her husband's voice might at any moment break the silence, and summon her to his side. Days when Peter had been absent at school, instead of, as now, at play; and when the old ladies had also been absent, taking their regular and daily drive in the big barouche.

Then she had prized and coveted the solitude of a summer afternoon on the lawn, and had stolen away to read and dream undisturbed in the shadow of the ilex.

It was now, when no vexatious restraint was exercised over her—when there was no one to reprove her for dreaming, or to criticize or forbid her chosen book—that solitude had become distasteful to her. She was restless and dissatisfied, and the misty sunlit landscape had lost its charm, and her book its power of enchaining her attention.

She had tasted the joy of real companionship; the charm of real sympathy; of the fearless exchange of ideas with one whose outlook upon life was as broad and charitable as Sir Timothy's had been narrow and prejudiced.

She had scarcely dared to acknowledge to herself how dear John Crewys had become to her, even though she knew that she rested thankfully upon the certainty of his love; that she trusted him in all things; that she was in utter sympathy with all his thoughts and words and ways.

Yet she had wished him to go, that she might be free to devote herself to her boy—to be very sure that she was not a light and careless mother, ready to abandon her son at the first call of a stranger.

And John Crewys had understood as another might not have understood. His clear head and great heart had divined her feelings, though perhaps he would never quite know how passionately grateful she was because he had divined them; because he had in no way fallen short of the man he had seemed to be.

She had sacrificed John to Peter; and John, who had shown so much wisdom and delicacy in leaving her alone with her son, was avenged; for only his absence could have made clear to her how he had grown into the heart she had guarded so jealously for Peter's sake.

She knew now that Peter's companionship made her more lonely than utter solitude.

The joie de vivre, which had distinguished her early days, and was inherent in her nature, had been quenched, to all appearance, many years since; but the spark had never died, and John had fanned it into brightness once more.

His strong hand had swept away the cobwebs that had been spun across her life; and the drooping soul had revived in the sunshine of his love, his comradeship, his warm approval.

Timidly, she had learnt to live, to laugh, to look about her, and dare utter her own thoughts and opinions, instead of falsely echoing those she did not share. Lady Mary had recovered her individuality; the serene consciousness of a power within herself to live up to the ideal her lover had conceived of her.

But now, in his absence, that confidence had been rudely shaken. She had come to perceive that she, who charmed others so easily, could not charm her sullen son. It was part of the penalty she paid for her quick-wittedness, that she could realize herself as Peter saw her, though she was unable to present herself before him in a more favourable light.

"I must be myself—or nobody," she thought despairingly. But Peter wanted her to be once more the meek, plainly dressed, low-spirited, silent being whom Sir Timothy had created; and who was not in the least like the original laughing, loving, joyous Mary Setoun.

It did not occur to her, in her sorrowful humility, that possibly her qualities stood on a higher level than Peter's powers of appreciation. Yet it is certain that people can only admire intelligently what is good within their comprehension; and their highest flights of imagination may sometimes scarcely touch mediocrity.

The noblest ideals, the fairest dreams, the subtlest reasoning, the finest ethics, contained in the writings of the mighty dead, meant nothing at all to Sir Timothy. His widow knew that she had never heard him utter one high or noble or selfless thought. But with, perhaps, pardonable egotism, she had taken it for granted that Peter must be different. Whatever his outward humours, he was her son; rather a part of herself, in her loving fancy, than a separate individual.

The moment of awakening had been long in coming to Lady Mary; the moment when a mother has to find out that her personality is not necessarily reproduced in her child; that the being who was once the unconscious consoler of her griefs and troubles may develop a nature perfectly antagonistic to her own.

She had kept her eyes shut with all her might for a long time, but necessity was forcing them open.

Perhaps her association with John Crewys made it easier to see Peter as he was, and not as she had wished him to be.

And yet, she thought miserably to herself, he had certainly tried hard to be affectionate and kind to her—and probably it did not occur to him, as it did to his mother, how pathetic it was that he should have to try.

Peter did not think much about it.

Sometimes, during his short stay at Barracombe, he had walked through a game of croquet with his mother—it was good practice for his left hand—or he listened disapprovingly to something she inadvertently (forgetting he was not John) read aloud for his sympathy or admiration; or he took a short stroll with her; or bestowed his company upon her in some other dutiful fashion. But these filial attentions over, if he yawned with relief—why, he never did so in her presence, and would have been unable to understand that Lady Mary saw him yawning, in her mind's eye, as plainly as though he had indulged this bad habit under her very nose. He bestowed a portion of his time on his aunts in much the same spirit, taking less trouble to be affectionate, because they were less exacting, as he would have put it to himself, than she was.

The scheme of renting a house in London had duly been laid before him, and rejected most decisively by the young gentleman. His father had never taken a house in town, and he could see no necessity for it. His aunts were lost in admiration for their nephew's firmness. Peter had inherited somewhat of his father's dictatorial manner, and their flattery did not tend to soften it. When his aged relatives mispronounced the magic word kopje, or betrayed their belief that a donga was an inaccessible mountain—he brought the big guns of his heavy satire to bear on the little target of their ignorance without remorse. He mistook a loud voice, and a habit of laying down the law, for manly decision, and the gift of leadership; and imagined that in talking down his mother's gentle protests he had convinced her of his superior wisdom.

When he had made it sufficiently clear, however, that he did not wish Lady Mary to accompany him to town, young Sir Peter made haste to depart thither himself, on the very reasonable plea that he required a new outfit of clothes.

Was it possible that his departure brought a dreadful relief to the mother who had prayed day and night, for eight-and-twenty months, that her son might return to her?

She tried and tried, on her knees in her own room, to realize what her feelings would have been if Peter had been killed in South Africa. She tried to recall the first ecstasy of joy at his home-coming. She remembered, as she might have remembered a dream, the hours of agony she had passed, looking out over these very blue hills, and dumbly beseeching God to spare her boy—her only son—out of all the mothers' sons who were laying down their lives for England.

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. Ash superseded!

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 induce me to 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 not too near, and we could keep an eye on her."

"If she does not succeed, somebody else will," said Lady Belstone, sensibly; "and, at least, we know her faults, and can put Peter on his 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?"



CHAPTER XVI

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 they were a 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 scolding me for 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 it was her 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 allow me to 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 the habitue is 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," said Lady 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 with you" 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.

"Perhaps then," said Lady Mary; and she laid her hand softly in the strong hand outstretched to receive it.



CHAPTER XVII

There was a tap at the door of Lady Mary's bedroom, and Peter's voice sounded without.

"Mother, could I speak to you for a moment?"

"Come in," said Lady Mary's 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. She always 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 she couldn't marry 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 if my share of the difficulties were removed, there'd still be Lady Tintern against us. But if Sarah can defy Lady Tintern in one thing, 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 even you must 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, and used to 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 only seen the houses she's accustomed to staying at. Tintern Castle, for instance—"

"I was born in a greater house than Tintern Castle, Peter," said Lady Mary, 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 Sarah minds this 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; and that's not a difficulty I can 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 never can understand 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 of this happening. But they would be perfectly happy in the Dower House; it is close by, and I could see them very often. It wouldn't be like leaving Barracombe."