"Yes, I think they could be happy there," said Lady Mary. She felt that the moment had come at last. Her heart beat thickly, and her colour came and went. "But if they were happily settled at the Dower House," she said slowly, for her agitation was making her breathless, and she did not want Peter to notice it,"—I would willingly give it up to them altogether. It could not matter whether I were there or not. Though they are old, they are perfectly able to look after themselves—and other people; and if they were not, they would not like me to take care of them. They have their own servants and Mrs. Ash. And they have never liked me, Peter, though we have lived together so many years."

"That is nonsense," said Peter, very calmly; "and if they don't want you there, mother, I do. Of course you must live at the Dower House; my father left it to you. And I shall want you more than ever now."

"I don't see how," said Lady Mary.

"Why, we—Sarah and I," said Peter, lingering fondly over the words which linked that beloved name with his own, "if we ever—if it ever came off—we shall naturally be away from home a good deal. I couldn't ask Sarah to tie herself down to this dull old place, could I?"

"I suppose not," said Lady Mary.

"She's accustomed to going about the world a good deal," said Peter.

"No doubt."

"Even I," said Peter, turning a flushed face towards his mother—"I am too young, as Sarah says—and I feel it myself since I have seen something of the life she lives—to become a complete fixture, like my father was. It's—it's, as Sarah says—it's narrowing. I can see the effects of it upon you all," said Peter, calmly, "when I come back here."

He could not fathom the wistfulness which clouded the blue eyes she lifted to his face.

"It is very narrowing," she said humbly.

"One may devote one's self to one's duties as a landed proprietor," said Peter, with another recurrence of pomposity, "and yet see something of one's fellow-men."

He replaced the eyeglass, and walked up and down the room for a few moments, as though he were pacing a quarter-deck. He looked very tall, and very, very slight and thin; older than his years, tanned and dried by the African sun, which had enhanced his natural darkness. Though he spoke as a boy, he looked like a man. His mother's heart yearned over him.

Peter had taken his lack of perception with him into the heart of South Africa, and brought it back intact. Because his body had travelled many hundreds of miles over land and sea, he believed that his mind had opened in proportion to the distance covered. He knew that men and women of action pick up knowledge of the world without pausing on their busy way; but he did not know that it is to the silent, the sorrowful, and the solitary—to those who have time to listen—that God reveals the secrets of life.

She said to herself that everything about him was dear to her; his grey eyes, that never saw below the surface of things; his thin, brown face; his youthful affectation; the strange, new growth which shaded his long upper lip, and softened the plainness of the Crewys physiognomy, which Peter would not have bartered for the handsomest set of Greek features ever imagined by a sculptor. Even for his faults Lady Mary had a tender toleration; for Peter would not have been Peter without them.

"It would not be fair on Sarah, knowing all London—worth knowing—as she does," said Peter with pardonable exaggeration, "to rob her of the season altogether. We shall go up regularly, every year, if—if she marries me. Of that I am determined, and so"—incidentally—"is she."

"Nothing could be nicer," said Lady Mary, heartily enough to satisfy even Peter.

He spoke with more warmth and naturalness. "She likes to go abroad, mother, too, now and then," he said.

"That would be delightful," said Lady Mary, eagerly. Her blue eyes sparkled. Her interest and enthusiasm were easily roused, after all; and surely these new ideas would make it much easier to tell Peter. "Oh, Peter!" she said, clasping her hands, "Paris—Rome—Switzerland!"

"Wherever Sarah fancies," said Peter, magnanimously. "I can't say I care much. All I am thinking of is—being with her. It doesn't matter where, so long as she is pleased. What does anything matter," he said, and his dark face softened as she had never seen it soften yet, "so long as one is with the companion one loves best in the world?"

"It would be—Paradise," said Lady Mary, in a low voice; and she thought to herself resolutely, "I will tell him now."

Peter ceased his walk, and came close to her and took her hand. The emotion had not altogether died out of his voice and face.

"But you are not to think, mother, that I shall ever again be the selfish boy I used to be—the boy who didn't value your love and devotion."

"No, dear, no," she answered, with wet eyes; "I will never think so. We can love each other just the same, perhaps even batter, even though—Oh, Peter—"

But Peter was in no mind to brook interruption. He was burning to pour out his plans for her future, and his own.

"Wherever we may go, and whatever we may be doing," he said emotionally, "it will be a joy and a comfort to me to know that my dear old mother is always here. Taking care of the place and looking after the people, and waiting always to welcome me, with her old sweet smile on her dear old face."

Peter was not often moved to such enthusiasm, and he was almost overcome by his own eloquence in describing this beautiful picture.

Lady Mary was likewise overcome. She sank back once more in her cushioned corner, looking at him with a blank dismay that could not escape even his dull observation. How impossible it was to tell Peter, after all! How impossible he always made it!

"I know you must feel it just at first," he said anxiously; "but you—you can't expect to keep me all to yourself for ever."

She shook her head, and tried to smile.

He grew a little impatient. "After all," he said, "you must be reasonable, mother. Every one has to live his own life."

Then Lady Mary found words. A sudden rush of indignation—the pent-up feelings of years—brought the scarlet blood to her cheeks and the fire to her gentle, blue eyes.

"Every one—but me" she said, trembling violently.

"You!" said Peter, astonished.

She clasped her hands against her bosom to still the panting and throbbing that, it seemed to her, must be evident outwardly, so strong was the emotion that shook her fragile form.

"Every one—but me," she said. "Does it never—strike you—Peter—that I, too, would like to live before I die? Whilst you are living your own life, why shouldn't I be living mine? Why shouldn't I go to London, and to Paris, and to Rome, and to Switzerland, or wherever I choose, now that you—you—have set me free?"

"Mother," said Peter, aghast, "are you gone mad?"

"Perhaps I am a little mad," said poor Lady Mary. "People go mad sometimes, who have been too long—in prison—they say." Then she saw his real alarm, and laughed till she cried. "I am not really mad," she said. "Do not be frightened, Peter. I—I was only joking."

"It is enough to frighten anybody when you go on like that," said Peter, relieved, but angry. "Talking of prison, and rushing about all over the world—I see no joke in that."

"Why should I be the only one who must not rush all over the world?" said Lady Mary.

"You must know perfectly well it would be preposterous," said Peter, sullenly, "to break up all your habits, and leave Barracombe and—and all of us—and start a fresh life—at your age. And if this is how you mock at me and all my plans, I'm sorry I ever took you into my confidence at all. I might have known I should repent it," he said; and a sob of angry resentment broke his voice.

"Indeed, I am not mocking at you, Peter," she said, sorely repentant and ashamed of her outburst. "Forgive me, darling! I see it was—not the moment. You do not understand. You are thinking only of Sarah, as is natural just now. It was not the moment for me to be talking of myself."

"You never used to be selfish," said Peter, thawing somewhat, as she threw her arms about him, and rested her head against his shoulder.

She laughed rather sadly. "But perhaps I am growing selfish—in my old age," said Peter's mother.

Later, Lady Mary sought John Crewys in the smoking-room. He sprang up, smiled at her, and held out his hand.

"So Peter has been confiding his schemes to you?"

"How did you know?"

"I only guessed. When a man seeks a tete-a-tete so earnestly, it is generally to talk about himself. Did the schemes include—Sarah?"

"They include Sarah—marriage—travelling—London—change of every kind."

"Already!" cried John, "Bravo, Peter! and hurray for one-and-twenty! And you are free?"

"Oh, no; I am not to be free."

"What! Do his schemes include you?"

"Not altogether."

"That is surely illogical, if yours are to include him?"

She smiled faintly. "I am to be always here, to look after the place when he and Sarah are travelling or in London. I am to live with his aunts. He wants to be able to think of me as always waiting here to welcome him home, as—as I have been all his life. Not actually in this house, because—Sarah—my little Sarah—wouldn't like that, it seems; but in the Dower House, close by."

"I see," said John. "How delightfully ingenuous, and how pleasingly unselfish a very young man can sometimes be!"

"Ah! don't laugh at me, John," she said tremulously. "Indeed, just now, I cannot bear it."

"Laugh at you, my queen—my saint! How little you know me!" said John, tenderly. "It was at Peter that I was presuming to smile."

"Is it a laughing matter?" she said wistfully.

"I think it will be, Mary."

"I tried so hard to tell him," said Lady Mary, "but I couldn't. Somehow he made it impossible. He looks upon me as quite, quite old."

John laughed outright. A laugh that rang true even to Lady Mary's sensitive perceptions.

"But didn't you look upon everybody over thirty as, quite old when you were one-and-twenty? I'm sure I did."

"Perhaps. But yet—I don't know. I am his mother. It is natural he should feel so. He made me realize how preposterous it was for me, the mother of a grown-up son, to be thinking selfishly of my own happiness, as though I were a young, fresh girl just starting life."

"I had hoped," said John, quietly, "that you might be thinking a little of my happiness too."

"Oh, John! But your happiness and mine seemed all the same thing," she said ingenuously. "Yet he thinks of my life as finished; and I was thinking of it as though it were beginning all over again. He made me feel so ashamed, so conscience-stricken." She hid her face in her hands. "How could I tell him?"

"I think," said John, "that the time has come when he must be told. I meant to put it off until he attained his majority; but since he has broached the subject of your leaving this house himself, he has given us the best opportunity possible. And I also think—that the telling had better be left to me."



CHAPTER XVIII

John Crewys stood on the walk below the terrace, with Peter by his side, enjoying an after-breakfast smoke, and watching a party of sportsmen climbing up the bracken-clothed slopes of the opposite hillside. A dozen beaters were toiling after the guns, among whom the short and sturdy figure of Colonel Hewel was very plainly to be distinguished. A boy was leading a pony-cart for the game.

Sarah had accepted an invitation to dine and spend the evening with her beloved Lady Mary at Barracombe; but Peter had another appointment with her besides, of which Lady Mary knew nothing. He was to meet her at the ferry, and picnic on the moor at the top of the hill, on his side of the river. But through all the secret joy and triumph that possessed him at the remembrance of this rendezvous, he could not but sigh as he watched the little procession of sportsmen opposite, and almost involuntarily his regret escaped him in the half-muttered words—

"I shall never shoot again."

"There are things even better worth doing in life," said John, sympathetically.

"Colonel Hewel wouldn't give in to that," said Peter.

"He's rather a one-idea'd man," John agreed. "But if you asked him whether he'd sacrifice all the sport he's ever likely to enjoy, for one chance to distinguish himself in action—why, you're a soldier, and you know best what he'd say."

Peter's brow cleared. "You've got a knack," he said, almost graciously, "of putting a fellow in a good humour with himself, Cousin John."

"I generally find it easier to be in a good humour with myself than with other people," said John, whimsically. "One expects so little from one's self, that one is scarcely ever disappointed; and so much from other people, that nothing they can do comes up to one's expectations."

"I don't know about that," said Peter, bluntly. "Old Crawley says you take it out of yourself like anything. Since I came back this time, he's been holding forth to me about all you've done for me and the estate, and all that. I didn't know my father had left things in such a mess. And that was a smart thing you did about buying in the farm, and settling the dispute with the Crown, which my father used to be so worried over. I see I've got a good bit to thank you for, Cousin John. I—I'm no end grateful, and all that."

"All right," said John. "Don't bother to make speeches, old boy."

"I must say one thing, though," said Peter, awkwardly. "I was against all the changes, and thought they might have been left till I came home; but I didn't realize it was to be now or never, as old Crawley puts it, and that I'm not to have the right to touch my capital when I come of age."

"The whole arrangement was rather an unusual one; but everything's worked out all right, and, as far as the estate goes, you'll find it in pretty fair order to start upon, and values increased," said John, quietly. "But Crawley has the whole thing at his fingers' ends, and the interest of the place thoroughly at heart. You couldn't have a better adviser."

"He's well enough," said Peter, somewhat ungraciously.

"Shall we take a turn up and down?" said John. He lighted a fresh cigarette. "There is a chill feeling in the air, though it is such a lovely morning."

"It will be warmer when the sun has conquered the mist," said Peter, with a slight shiver.

The white dew on the long grass, and the gossamer cobwebs spun in a single night from twig to twig of the rose-trees, glittered in the sunshine.

The autumn roses bloomed cheerfully in the long border, and the robins were singing loudly on the terrace above. The heavy heads of the dahlias drooped beneath their weight of moisture, in these last days of their existence, before the frost would bring them to a sudden end. Capucines, in every shade of brown and crimson and gold, ran riot over the ground.

Peter drew a pipe from his pocket, put it in his mouth, took out his tobacco-pouch, and filled the pipe with his left hand.

John watched him with interest. "That was dexterously done."

"I'm getting pretty handy," said the hero, with satisfaction, striking a match; "but"—his face fell anew—"no more football; one feels that sort of thing just at the beginning of the season. No more games. It wouldn't tell so much on a fellow like you, Cousin John, who's perfectly happy with a book, and who—"

"Who's too old for games," suggested John.

"Oh, there's always golf," said Peter.

"A refuge for the aged, eh?" said John, and his eyes twinkled. "But Miss Sarah says you bid fair to beat her at croquet."

"Oh, she was—just rotting," said Peter; and the tone touched John, though he detested slang. "And what's croquet, after all, to a fellow that's used to exercise? I suppose I shall be all right again hunting, when I've got my nerve back a bit. At present it's rotten. A fellow feels so beastly helpless and one-sided. However, that'll wear off, I expect."

"I hope so," said John.

They reached the end of the long walk, and stood for a moment beneath the eastern turret, watching the sparkles on the brown surface of the river below, and the white mist floating away down the valley.

"Talking of advice," said Peter, abruptly—"if I wanted that, I'd rather come to you than to old Crawley. After all, though you won't be my guardian much longer, you're still my mother's trustee."

"Yes," said John, smiling; "the law still entitles me to take an interest in—in your mother."

"Of course I shouldn't dream of mentioning her affairs, or mine either, for that matter, to any one else," said Peter.

He made an exception in his own mind, but decided that it was not necessary to explain this to John, for the moment.

"Thank you, Peter," said John.

"My mother—seems to me," said Peter, slowly, "to have changed very much since I went to South Africa. Have you noticed it?"

"I have," said John, dryly.

"I don't suppose," said Peter, quickening his steps, "that any one could realize exactly what I feel about it."

"I think—perhaps—I could," said John, without visible satire, "dimly and, no doubt, inadequately."

"The fact is," said Peter, and the warm colour rushed into his brown face, even to his thin temples, "I—I'm hoping to get married very soon; though nothing's exactly settled yet."

"A man in your position generally marries early," said John. "I think you're quite right."

"As my mother likes—the girl I want to marry," said Peter, "I hoped it would make everything straight. But she seems quite miserable at the thought of settling down quietly in the Dower House."

"Ah! in the Dower House," said John. "Then you will not be wanting her to live here with you, after all?"

"It's the same thing, though," said Peter, "as I've tried to explain to her. She'd be only a few yards off; and she could still be looking after the place and my interests, and all that, as she does now. And whenever I was down here, I should see her constantly; you know how devoted I am to my mother. Of course I can't deny I did lead her to hope I should be always with her. But a man can't help it if he happens to fall in love. Of course, if—if all happens as I hope, as I have reason to hope, I shall have to be away from her a good deal. But that's all in the course of nature as a fellow grows up. I sha'n't be any the less glad to see her when I do come home. And yet here she is talking quite wildly of leaving Barracombe altogether, and going to London, and travelling all over the world, and doing all sorts of things she's never done in her life. It's not like my mother, and I can't bear to think of her like that. I tell you she's changed altogether," said Peter, and there were tears in his grey eyes.

John felt an odd sympathy for the boy; he recognized that though Peter's limitations were obvious, his anxiety was sincere.

Peter, too, had his ideals; if they were ideals conventional and out of date, that was hardly his fault. John figured to himself very distinctly that imaginary mother whom Peter held sacred; the mother who stayed always at home, and parted her hair plainly, and said many prayers, and did much needlework; but who, nevertheless, was not, and never could be, the real Lady Mary, whom Peter did not know. But it was a tender ideal in its way, though it belonged to that past into which so many tender and beautiful visions have faded.

The maiden of to-day still dreams of the knightly armour-clad heroes of the twelfth century; it is not her fault that she is presently glad to fall in love with a gentleman on the Stock Exchange, in a top hat and a frock coat.

"I have seen something of women of the world," said Peter, who had scarcely yet skimmed the bubbles from the surface of that society, whose depths he believed himself to have explored. "I suppose that is what my mother wants to turn into, when she talks of London and Paris. My mother! who has lived in the country all her life."

"I suppose some women are worldly," said John, as gravely as possible, "and no doubt the shallow-hearted, the stupid, the selfish are to be found everywhere, and belonging to either sex; but, nevertheless, solid virtue and true kindness are to be met with among the dames of Mayfair as among the matrons of the country-side. Their shibboleth is different, that's all. Perhaps—it is possible—that the speech of the town ladies is the more charitable, that they seek more persistently to do good to their fellow-creatures. I don't know. Comparisons are odious, but so," he added, with a slight laugh, "are general conclusions, founded on popular prejudice rather than individual experience—odious."

Here John perceived that his words of wisdom were conveying hardly any meaning to Peter, who was only waiting impatiently till he had come to an end of them; so he pursued this topic no further, and contented himself by inquiring:

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to explain to her," said Peter, eagerly, "how unsuitable it would be; and to advise her to settle down quietly at the Dower House, as I'm sure my father would have wished her to do. That's all."

"I see," said John, "you want me to put the case to her from your point of view."

"I wish you would," said Peter, earnestly; "every one says you're so eloquent. Surely you could talk her over?"

"I hope I am not eloquent in private life," said John, laughing. "But if you want to know how it appears to me—?"

Peter nodded gravely, pipe in mouth.

"Let us see. To start with," said John, thoughtfully, "you went off, a boy from Eton, to serve your country when you thought, and rightly, that your country had need of you. You distinguished yourself in South Africa—"

"Surely you needn't go into all that?" said Peter, staring.

"Excuse me," said John, smiling. "In putting your case, I can't bear to leave out vital details. Merely professional prejudice. Shortly, then, you fully sustained your share in a long and arduous campaign; you won your commission; you were wounded, decorated, and invalided home."

He stopped short in the brilliant sunshine which now flooded their path, and looked gravely at Peter.

"Some of us," said John, "have imagination enough to realize, even without the help of war-correspondents, the scenes of horror through which you, and scores of other boys, fresh from school, like you, had to live through. We can picture the long hours on the veldt—on the march—in captivity—in the hospitals—in the blockhouses—when soldiers have been sick at heart, wearied to death with physical suffering, and haunted by ghastly memories of dead comrades."

Peter hurriedly drew his left hand from the pocket where the beloved tobacco-pouch reposed, and pulled his brown felt hat down over his eyes, as though the October sunlight hurt them.

"I think at such times, Peter," said John, quietly continuing his walk by the boy's side, "that you must have longed now and then for your home; for this peaceful English country, your green English woods, and the silent hall where your mother waited for you, trembled for you, prayed for you. I think your heart must have ached then, as so many men's hearts have ached, to remember the times when you might have made her happy by a word, or a look, or a smile. And you didn't do it, Peter—you didn't do it."

Peter made a restless movement indicative of surprise and annoyance; but he was silent still, and John changed his tone, and spoke lightly and cheerfully.

"Well, then you came home; and your joy of life, of youth, of health all returned; and you looked forward, naturally, to taking your share of the pleasures open to other young men of your standing. But you never meant to forget your mother, as so many careless sons forget those who have watched and waited for them. Even though you fell in love, you still thought of her. When you were weary of travel, or pleasure connected with the outside world, you meant always to return to her. You liked to think she would still be waiting for you; faithfully, gratefully waiting, within the sacred precincts of your childhood's home. And now, when you remember her submission to your father's wishes in the past, and her single-hearted devotion to yourself, you are shocked and disappointed to find that she can wish to descend from her beautiful and guarded solitude here, and mix with her fellow-creatures in the work-a-day world. Why," said John, in a tone rather of dreaming and tenderness than of argument, "that would be to tear the jewel from its setting—the noble central figure from the calm landscape, lit by the evening sun."

There was a pause, during which Peter smoked energetically.

"Well," he said presently, "of course I can't follow all that highfalutin' style, you know—"

"Of course not," said John, "I understand. You're a plain Englishman."

"Exactly," said Peter, relieved; "I am. But one thing I will say—you've got the idea."

"Thank you," said John.

"If you can put it like that to my mother," said Peter, still busy with his pipe, but speaking very emphatically, "why, all I can say is, that I believe it's the way to get round her. I've often noticed how useless it seems to talk common-sense to her. But a word of sentiment—and there you are. Strange to say, she likes nothing better than—er—poetry. I hope you don't mind my calling you rather poetical," said Peter, in a tone of sincere apology. "I wish, John, you'd go straight to my mother, and put the whole case before her, just like that."

"The whole case!" said John. "But, my dear fellow, that's only half the case."

"What do you mean?"

"The other half," said John, "is the case from her point of view."

"I don't see," said Peter, "how her point of view can be different from mine."

John's thoughts flew back to a February evening, more than two years earlier. It seemed to him that Sir Timothy stood before him, surprised, pompous, argumentative. But he saw only Peter, looking at him with his father's grey eyes set in a boy's thin face.

"My experience as a barrister," he said, with a curious sense of repeating himself, "has taught me that it is possible for two persons to take diametrically opposite views of the same question."

"And what happens then?" said Peter, stupidly.

"Our bread and butter."

"But why should my mother leave the place she's lived in for years and years, and go gadding about all over the world—at her time of life? I don't see what can be said for the wisdom of that?"

"Nothing from your point of view, I dare say," said John. "Much from hers. If you are willing to listen, and if," he added smiling, as an afterthought, "you will promise not to interrupt?"

"Well," said Peter, rather doubtfully, "all right, I promise. You won't be long, I suppose?"

He glanced stealthily down towards the ferry, though he knew that Sarah would not be there for a couple of hours at least, and that he could reach it in less than ten minutes. But half the pleasure of meeting Sarah consisted in waiting for her at the trysting-place.

John observed the glance, and smiled imperceptibly. He took out his watch.

"I shall speak," he said, carefully examining it, "for four minutes."

"Let's sit," said Peter. "It's warm enough now, in all conscience."

They sat upon an old stone bench below the turret. Peter leant back with his black head resting against the wall, his felt hat tipped over his eyes and his pipe in his mouth. He looked comfortable, even good-humoured.

"Go ahead," he murmured.

"To understand the case from your mother's point of view, I am afraid it is necessary," said John, "to take a rapid glance at the circumstances of her life which have—which have made her what she is. She came here, as a child, didn't she, when her father died; and though he had just succeeded to the earldom, he died a very poor man? Your father, as her guardian, spared no pains, nor expense for that matter, in educating and maintaining her. When she was barely seventeen years old, he married her."

There was a slight dryness in John's voice as he made the statement, which accounted for the gruffness of Peter's acquiescence.

"Of course—she was quite willing," said John, understanding the offence implied by Peter's growl. "But as we are looking at things exclusively from her point of view just now, we must not forget that she had seen nothing of the world, nothing of other men. She had also"—he caught his breath—"a bright, gay, pleasure-loving disposition; but she moulded herself to seriousness to please her husband, to whom she owed everything. When other girls of her age were playing at love—thinking of dances, and games and outings—she was absorbed in motherhood and household cares. A perfect wife, a perfect mother, as poor human nature counts perfection."

Lady Mary would have cried out in vehement contradiction and self-reproach, had she heard these words; but Peter again growled reluctant acquiescence, when John paused.

"In one day," said John, slowly, "she was robbed of husband and child. Her husband by death; her boy, her only son, by his own will. He deserted her without even bidding, or intending to bid her, farewell. Hush—remember, this is from her point of view."

Peter had started to his feet with an angry exclamation; but he sat down again, and bent his sullen gaze on the garden path as John continued. His brown face was flushed; but John's low, deep tones, now tender, now scornful, presently enchained and even fascinated his attention. He listened intently, though angrily.

"Her grief was passionate, but—her life was not over," said John. "She, who had been guided from childhood by the wishes of others, now found that, without neglecting any duty, she could consult her own inclinations, indulge her own tastes, choose her own friends, enjoy with all the fervour of an unspoilt nature the world which opened freshly before her: a world of art, of music, of literature, of a thousand interests which mean so much to some of us, so little to others. To her returns this formerly undutiful son, and finds—a passionately devoted mother, indeed, but also a woman in the full pride of her beauty and maturity. And this boy would condemn her—the most delightful, the most attractive, the most unselfish companion ever desired by a man—to sit in the chimney-corner like an old crone with a distaff, throughout all the years that fate may yet hold in store for her—with no greater interest in life than to watch the fading of her own sweet face in the glass, and to await the intervals during which he would be graciously pleased to afford her the consolation of his presence."

"Have you done?" said Peter, furiously.

"I could say a good deal more," said John, growing suddenly cool. "But"—he showed his watch—"my time is up."

"What—what do you mean by all this?" said the boy, stammering with passion. "What is my mother to you?"

The time had come.

John's bright hazel eyes had grown stern; his middle-aged face, flushed with the emotion his own words had aroused, yet controlled and calm in every line of handsome feature and steady brow, confronted Peter's angry, bewildered gaze.

"She is the woman I love," said John. "The woman I mean to make my wife."

He remained seated, silently waiting for Peter to imbibe and assimilate his words.

After a quick gasp of incredulous indignation, Peter, too, sat silent at his side.

John gave him time to recover before he spoke again.

"I hope," he said, very gently, "that when you have thought it over, you won't mind it so much. As it's going to be—it would be pleasanter if you and I could be friends. I think, later on, you may even perceive advantages in the arrangement—under the circumstances; when you have recovered from your natural regret in realizing that she must leave Barracombe—"

"It isn't that," said Peter, hoarsely. He felt he must speak; and he also desired, it must be confessed, to speak offensively, and relieve himself somewhat of the accumulated rage and resentment that was burning in his breast. "It's—it's simply"—he said, flushing darkly, and turning his face away from John's calm and friendly gaze—"that to me—to me, the idea is—ridiculous."

"Ah!" said John. He rose from the stone bench. A spark of anger came to him, too, as he looked at Peter, but he controlled his voice and his temper. "The time will come," he said, "when your imagination will be able to grasp the possibility of love between a man in the forties and a woman in the thirties. At least, for your sake, I hope it will."

"Why for my sake?" said Peter.

"Because I should be sorry," said John, "if you died young."



CHAPTER XIX

Nearly a thousand feet above the fertile valley of the Youle, stretched a waste of moorland. Here all the trees were gnarled and dwarfed above the patches of rust-coloured bracken; save only the delicate silver birch, which swayed and yielded to the wind.

Great boulders were scattered among the thorn bushes, and over their rough and glistening breasts were flung velvet coverings of green moss and grey lichen.

On this October day, the heather yet sturdily bore a few last rosy blossoms, and the ripe blackberries shone like black diamonds on the straggling brambles. Here and there a belated furze-bush erected its golden crown.

Over the dim purple of the distant hills, a brighter purple line proclaimed the sea. Closer at hand, on a ridge exposed to every wind of heaven, sighed a little wood of stunted larch and dull blue pine, against a clear and brilliant sky.

Sarah was enthroned on a mossy stone, beneath the yellowing foliage of a sheltering beech.

Her glorious ruddy hair was uncovered, and a Tyrolese hat was hung on a neighbouring bramble, beside a little tweed coat. She wore a loose white canvas shirt, and short tweed skirt; a brown leather belt, and brown leather boots.

Being less indifferent to creature-comforts than to the preservation of her complexion, Miss Sarah was paying great attention to the contents of a market-basket by her side. She had chosen a site for the picnic near a bubbling brook, and had filled her glass with clear sparkling water therefrom, before seating herself to enjoy her cold chicken and bread and butter, and a slice of game-pie.

Peter was very far from feeling any inclination towards displaying the hilarity which an outdoor meal is supposed to provoke. He was obliged to collect sticks, and put a senseless round-bottomed kettle on a damp reluctant fire; to himself he used much stronger adjectives in describing both; he relieved his feelings slightly by saying that he never ate lunch, and by gloomily eying the game-pie instead of aiding Sarah to demolish it.

"It wouldn't be a picnic without a kettle and a fire; and we must have hot water to wash up with. I brought a dish-cloth on purpose," said Sarah. "I can't think why you don't enjoy yourself. You used to be fond of eating and drinking—anywhere—and most of all on the moor—in the good old days that are gone."

"I am not a philosopher like you," said Peter, angrily.

"I am anything but that," said Sarah, with provoking cheerfulness. "A philosopher is a thoughtful middle-aged person who puts off enjoying life until it's too late to begin."

"I hate middle-aged people," said Peter.

"I am not very fond of them myself, as a rule," said Sarah, indulgently. "They aren't nice and amusing to talk to, like you and me; or rather" (with a glance at her companion's face), "like me; and they aren't picturesque and fond of spoiling us, as really old people are. They are just busy trying to get all they can out of the world, that's all. But there are exceptions; or, of course, it wouldn't be a rule. Your mother is an exception. No one, young or old, was ever more picturesque or—or more altogether delicious. It was I who taught her that new way of doing her hair. By-the-by, how do you like it?"

"I don't like it at all," growled Peter.

"Perhaps you preferred the old way," said Sarah, turning up her short nose rather scornfully. "Parted, indeed, and brushed down flat over her ears, exactly like that horrid old Mrs. Ash!"

"Mrs. Ash has lived with us for thirty years," said Peter, in a tone implying that he desired no liberties to be taken with the names of his faithful retainers.

"That doesn't make her any better looking, however," retorted Sarah. "In fact, she might have had more chance of learning how to do her hair properly anywhere else, now I come to think of it."

"Of course everything at Barracombe is ugly and old-fashioned," said Peter, gloomily.

"Except your mother," said Sarah.

"Sarah! I can't stand any more of this rot!" said Peter, starting from his couch of heather. "Will you talk sense, or let me?"

Sarah shot a keen glance of inquiry at his moody face.

"Well," she said, in resigned tones, "I did hope to finish my lunch in peace. I saw there was something the matter when you came striding up the hill without a word, but I thought it was only that you found the basket too heavy. Of course, if I had known it was only to be lunch for one, I would not have put in so many things; and certainly not a whole bottle of papa's best claret. In fact, if I had known I was to picnic practically alone, I would not have crossed the river at all."

Then she saw that Peter was in earnest, and with a sigh of regret, Sarah returned the dish of jam-puffs to the basket.

"I couldn't talk sense, or even listen to it, with those heavenly puffs under my very nose," she said. "Now, what is it?"

"I hate telling you—I hate talking of it," said Peter, and a dark flush rose to his frowning eyebrows. He threw himself once more at Sarah's feet, and turned his face away from her, and towards the blue streak of distant sea. "John Crewys wants to marry—my mother," he said in choking tones.

"Is that all?" said Sarah. "I've seen that for ages. Aren't you glad?"

"Glad!" said Peter.

"I thought," Sarah said innocently, "that you wanted to marry me?"

"Sarah!"

"Well!" said Sarah. She looked rather oddly at Peter's recumbent figure. Then she pushed the loosened waves of her red hair from her forehead with a determined gesture. "Well," she said defiantly, "isn't that one obstacle to our marriage removed? Your aunts will go to the Dower House, and your mother will leave Barracombe, and you'll have the place all to yourself. And you dare to tell me you're sorry?"

"Yes," said Peter, sitting up and facing her, "I dare."

"I'm glad of that," said Sarah. Her deep voice softened. "I should have thought less of you if you hadn't dared."

Suddenly she rose from her mossy throne, shook the crumbs off her skirt, and looked down upon Peter with blue eyes sparkling beneath her long lashes, and the fresh red colour deepening and spreading in her cheeks, until even the tips of her delicate ears and her creamy throat turned pink.

"Well," said Sarah, "go and stop it. Make your mother sorry and ashamed. It would be very easy. Tell her she's too old to be happy. But say good-bye to me first."

"Sarah!"

"Why is it to be all sunshine for you, and all shade for her?" said Sarah. "Hasn't she wept enough to please you? Mayn't she have her St. Martin's summer? God gives it to her. Will you take it away?"

"Sarah!"

He looked up at her crimsoned tearful face in dismay. Was this Sarah the infantile—the pink-and-white—the seductive, laughing, impudent Sarah? And yet how passionately Peter admired her in this mood of virago, which he had never seen since the days of her childish rages of long ago.

"Why do you suppose," said Sarah, disdainfully, "that I've been letting you follow me about all this summer, and desert her; except to show her how little you are to be depended upon? To bring home to her how foolish she'd be to fling away her happiness for your sake. You, who at one word from me, were willing to turn her out of her own home, to live in a wretched little villa at your very door. Don't interrupt me," said Sarah, stamping, "and say you weren't willing. You told her so. I meant you to tell her, and yet—I could have killed you, Peter, when I heard her sweet voice faltering out to me, that she would be ready and glad to give up her place to her boy's wife, whenever the time should come."

"She told you?" cried Peter.

"But she didn't say you'd asked her," cried Sarah, scornfully. "I knew it, but she never guessed I did. She was only gently smoothing away, as she hoped, the difficulties that lay in the path to your happiness. Oh, that she could have believed it of me! But she thinks only of your happiness. You, who would snatch away hers this minute if you could. She never dreamt I knew you'd said a word."

She paused in her impassioned speech, and the tears dropped from the dark blue eyes. Sarah was crying, and Peter was speechless with awe and dismay.

"I think she would have died, Peter," said Sarah, solemnly, "before she would have told me how brutal you'd been, and how stupid, and how selfish. I meant you to show her all that. I thought it would open her eyes. I was such a fool! As if anything could open the eyes of a mother to the faults of her only son."

Peter looked at her with such despair and grief in his dark face that her heart almost softened towards him; but she hardened it again immediately.

"Do you mean that you—you've been playing with me all this time, Sarah? They—everybody told me—that you were only playing—but I've never believed it."

"I meant to play with you," said Sarah, turning, if possible, even redder than before; "I meant to teach you a lesson, and throw you over. And the more I saw of you, the more I didn't repent. You, who dared to think yourself superior to your mother; and, indeed, to any woman! Kings are enslaved by women, you know," said Miss Sarah, tossing her head, "and statesmen are led by them, though they oughtn't to be. And—and poets worship them, or how could they write poetry? There would be nothing to write about. It is reserved for boys and savages to look down upon them."

She sat scornfully down again on her boulder, and put her hands to her loosened hair.

"I can't think why a scene always makes one's hair untidy," said Sarah, suddenly bursting into a laugh; but the whiteness of Peter's face frightened her, and she had some ado to laugh naturally. "And I am lost without a looking-glass," she added, in a somewhat quavering tone of bravado.

She pulled out a great tortoise-shell dagger, and a heavy mass of glorious red-gold hair fell about her piquant face, and her pretty milk-white throat, down to her waist.

"Dear me!" said Miss Sarah. She looked around. Near the bubbling brook, dark peaty hollows held little pools, which offered Nature's mirror for her toilet.

She went to the side of the stream and knelt down. Her plump white hands dexterously twisted and secured the long burnished coil. Then she glanced slyly round at Peter.

He lay face downwards on the grass. His shoulders heaved. The pretty picture Miss Sarah's coquetry presented had been lost upon the foolish youth.

She returned in a leisurely manner to her place, and leaning her chin on her hand, and her elbow on her knee, regarded him thoughtfully.

"Where was I? Yes, I remember. It is a lesson for a girl, Peter, never to marry a boy or a savage."

"Sarah!" said Peter. He raised his face and looked at her. His eyes were red, but he was too miserable to care; he was, as she had said, only a boy. "Sarah, you're not in earnest! You can't be! I—I know I ought to be angry." Miss Sarah laughed derisively. "Yes, you laugh, for you know too well I can't be angry with you. I love you!" said Peter, passionately, "though you are—as cruel as though I've not had pretty well as much to bear to-day, as I know how to stand. First, John Crewys, and now you—saying—"

"Just the truth," said Sarah, calmly.

"I don't deny," said Peter, in a quivering voice, "that—that some of the beastly things he said came—came home to me. I've been a selfish brute to her, I always have been. You've said so pretty plainly, and I—I dare say it's true. I think it's true. But to you—and I was so happy." He hid his face in his hand.

"I'm glad you have the grace to see the error of your ways at last," said Sarah, encouragingly. "It makes me quite hopeful about you. But I'm sorry to see you're still only thinking of our happiness—I mean yours," she corrected herself in haste, for a sudden eager hope flashed across Peter's miserable young face. "Yours, yours, yours. It's your happiness and not hers you think of still, though you've all your life before you, and she has only half hers. But no one has ever thought of her—except me, and one other."

"John Crewys?" said Peter, angrily.

"Not John Crewys at all," snapped Sarah. "He is just thinking of his own happiness like you are. All men are alike, except the one I'm thinking of. But though I make no doubt that John Crewys is just as selfish as you are, which is saying a good deal, yet, as it happens, John Crewys is the only man who could make her happy."

"What man are you thinking of?" said Peter.

Jealousy was a potent factor in his love for Sarah. He forgot his mother instantly, as he had forgotten her on the day of his return, when Sarah had walked on to the terrace—and into his heart.

"I name no names," said Sarah, "but I hope I know a hero when I see him; and that man is a hero, though he is—nothing much to look at."

It amused her to observe the varying expressions on her lover's face, which her artless words called forth, one after another.

"If you are really not going to eat any luncheon, Peter," she said, "I must trouble you to help me to wash up and pack the basket. The fire is out and the water is cold, but it can't be helped. The picnic has been a failure."

"We have the whole afternoon before us. I cannot see that there is any hurry," said Peter, not stirring.

"I didn't mean to break bad news to you," said Sarah, "until we'd had a pleasant meal together in comfort, and rested ourselves. But since you insist on spoiling everything with your horrid premature disclosures, I don't see why I shouldn't do the same. I must be at home by four o'clock, because Aunt Elizabeth is coming to Hewelscourt this very afternoon."

"Lady Tintern!" cried Peter, in dismay. "Then you won't be able to come to Barracombe this evening?"

"I am not in the habit of throwing over a dinner engagement," said Sarah, with dignity. "But in case they won't let me come," she added, with great inconsistency, "I'll put a lighted candle in the top window of the tower, as usual. But you can guess how many more of these enjoyable expeditions we shall be allowed to make. Not that we need regret them if they are all to be as lively as this one. Still—"

She helped herself to a jam-puff, and offered the dish to Peter, with an engaging smile. He helped himself absently.

"I don't deny I am fond of taking meals in the open air, and more especially on the top of the moor," said Sarah, with a sigh of content.

"What has she come for?" said Peter.

"I shall be better able to tell you when I have seen her."

"Don't you know?"

"I can pretty well guess. She's going to forgive me, for one thing. Then she'll tell me that I don't deserve my good luck, but that Lord Avonwick is so patient and so long-suffering, that he's accepted her assurance that I don't know my own mind (and I'm not sure I do), and he's going to give me one more chance to become Lady Avonwick, though I was so foolish as to say 'No' to his last offer."

"You didn't say 'No' to my last offer!" cried Peter.

"I don't believe an offer of marriage is even legal before you're one-and-twenty," said Miss Sarah, derisively. "What did it matter what I said? Haven't I told you I was only playing?"

"You may tell me so a thousand times," said Peter, doggedly, "but I shall never believe you until I see you actually married to somebody else."



CHAPTER XX

Lady Tintern was pleased to leave Paddington by a much earlier train than could have been expected. She hired a fly, and a pair of broken-kneed horses, at Brawnton, and once more took her relations at Hewelscourt by surprise. On this occasion, however, she was not fortunate enough to find her invalid niece at play in the stable-yard, though she detected her at luncheon, and warmly congratulated her upon her robust appearance and her excellent appetite.

Her journey had, no doubt, been undertaken with the very intentions Sarah had described; but another motive also prompted her, which Sarah had not divined.

Much as she desired to marry her grand-niece to Lord Avonwick, she was not blind to the young man's personal disadvantages, which were undeniable; and which Peter had rudely summed up in a word by alluding to his rival as an ass. He was distinguished among the admirers of Miss Sarah's red and white beauty by his brainlessness no less than by his eligibility.

Nevertheless, Lady Tintern had favoured his suit. She knew him to be a good fellow, although he was a simpleton, and she was very sure that he loved Sarah sincerely.

"Whoever the girl marries, she will rule him with a rod of iron. She had better marry a fool and be done with it. So why not an eligible and titled and good-natured fool?" the old lady had written to Mrs. Hewel, who was very far from understanding such reasoning, and wept resentfully over the letter.

Why should Lady Tintern snatch her only daughter away from her in order to marry her to a fool? Mrs. Hewel was of opinion that a sensible young man like Peter would be a better match. She supposed nobody would call Sir Peter Crewys of Barracombe a fool; and as for his being young, he was only a few months younger than Lord Avonwick, and Sarah would have just as pretty a title, even if her husband were only a baronet instead of a baron. Thus she argued to herself, and wrote the gist of her argument to her aunt. Why was Sarah to go hunting the highways and byways for titled fools, when there was Peter at her very door,—a young man she had known all her life, and one of the oldest families in Devon, and seven thousand acres of land only next week, when he would come of age, and could marry whomever he liked? Though, of course, Sarah must not go against her aunt, who had promised to do so much for her, and given her so many beautiful things, whether young girls ought to wear jewellery or not.

This was the distracted letter which was bringing Lady Tintern to Hewelscourt. She had been annoyed with Sarah for refusing Lord Avonwick, and thought it would do the rebellious young lady no harm to return for a time to the bosom of her family, and thus miss Newmarket, which Sarah particularly desired to attend, since no society function interested her half so much as racing.

The old lady had not in the least objected to Sarah's friendship for young Sir Peter Crewys. Sarah, as John had truly said, was a star with many satellites; and among those satellites Peter did not shine with any remarkable brilliancy, being so obviously an awkward country-bred lad, not at home in the surroundings to which her friendship had introduced him, and rather inclined to be surly and quarrelsome than pleasant or agreeable.

Lady Tintern had not taken such a boy's attentions to her grand-niece seriously; but if Sarah were taking them seriously, she thought she had better inquire into the matter at once. Therefore the energetic old woman not only arrived unexpectedly at Hewelscourt in the middle of luncheon, but routed her niece off her sofa early in the afternoon, and proposed that she should immediately cross the river and call upon Peter's mother.

"I have never seen the place except from these windows; perhaps I am underrating it," said Lady Tintern. "I've never met Lady Mary Crewys, though I know all the Setouns that ever were born. Never mind who ought to call on me first! What do I care for such nonsense? The boy is a cub and a bear—that I know—since he stayed in my house for a fortnight, and never spoke to me if he could possibly help it. He is a nobody! Sir Peter Fiddlesticks! Who ever heard of him or his family, I should like to know, outside this ridiculous place? His name is spelt wrong! Of course I have heard of Crewys, K.C. Everybody has heard of him. That has nothing to do with it. Yes, I know the young man did well in South Africa. All our young men did well in South Africa. Pray, is Sarah to marry them all? If that is what she is after, the sooner I take it in hand the better. Lunching by herself on the moors indeed! No; I am not at all afraid of the ferry, Emily. If you are, I will go alone, or take your good man."

"The colonel is out shooting, as you know, and won't be back till tea-time," said Mrs. Hewel, becoming more and more flurried under this torrent of lively scolding.

"The colonel! Why don't you say Tom? Colonel indeed!" said Lady Tintern. "Very well, I shall go alone."

But this Mrs. Hewel would by no means allow. She reluctantly abandoned the effort to dissuade her aunt, put on her visiting things with as much speed as was possible to her, and finally accompanied her across the river to pay the proposed visit to Barracombe House.

Lady Mary received her visitors in the banqueting hall, an apartment which excited Lady Tintern's warmest approval. The old lady dated the oak carving in the hall, and in the yet more ancient library; named the artists of the various pictures; criticized the ceilings, and praised the windows.

Mrs. Hewel feared her outspokenness would offend Lady Mary, but she could perceive only pleasure and amusement in the face of her hostess, between whom and the worldly old woman there sprang up a friendliness that was almost instantaneous.

"And you are like a Cosway miniature yourself, my dear," said Lady Tintern, peering out of her dark eyes at Lady Mary's delicate white face. "Eh—the bright colouring must be a little faded—all the Setouns have pretty complexions—and carmine is a perishable tint, as we all know."

"Sarah has a brilliant complexion," struck in Mrs. Hewel, zealously endeavouring to distract her aunt from the personalities in which she preferred to indulge.

"Sarah looks like a milkmaid, my love," said the old lady, who did not choose to be interrupted, "And when she can hunt as much as she wishes, and live the outdoor life she prefers, she will get the complexion of a boatwoman." She turned to Lady Mary with a gracious nod. "But you may live out of doors with impunity. Time seems to leave something better than colouring to a few Heaven-blessed women, who manage to escape wrinkles, and hardening, and crossness. I am often cross, and so are younger folk than I; and your boy Peter—though how he comes to be your boy I don't know—is very often cross too."

"You have been very kind to Peter," said Lady Mary, laughing. "I am sorry you found him cross."

"No; I was not kind to him. I am not particularly fond of cross people," said the old lady. "It is Sarah who has been kind," and she looked sharply again at Lady Mary.

"I am getting on in years, and very infirm," said Lady Tintern, "and I must ask you to excuse me if I lean upon a stick; but I should like to take a turn about the garden with you. I hear you have a remarkable view from your terrace."

Lady Mary offered her arm with pretty solicitude, and guided her aged but perfectly active visitor through the drawing-room—where she stopped to comment favourably upon the water colours—to the terrace, where John was sitting in the shade of the ilex-tree, absorbed in the London papers.

Lady Mary introduced him as Peter's guardian and cousin.

"How do you do, Mr. Crewys? Your name is very familiar to me," said the old lady. "Though to tell you the truth, Sir Peter looks so much older than his age that I forgot he had a guardian at all."

"He will only have one for a few days longer," said John, smiling. "My authority will expire very shortly."

"But you are, at any rate, the very man I wanted to see," said Lady Tintern, who seldom wasted time in preliminaries. "I would always rather talk business with a man than with a woman; so if Mr. Crewys will lend me his arm to supplement my stick, I will take a turn with him instead of with you, my dear, if you have no objection."

"Did you ever hear anything like her?" said poor Mrs. Hewel, turning to Lady Mary as soon as her aunt was out of hearing. "What Mr. Crewys must think of her, I cannot guess. She always says she had to exercise so much reticence as an ambassadress, that she has given her tongue a holiday ever since. But there is only one possible subject they can have to talk about. And how can we be sure her interference won't spoil everything? She is quite capable of asking what Peter's intentions are. She is the most indiscreet person in the world," said Sarah's mother, wringing her hands.

"I think Peter has made his intentions pretty obvious," said Lady Mary. She smiled, but her eyes were anxious.

"And you are sure you don't mind, dear Lady Mary? For who can depend on Lady Tintern, after all? She is supposed to be going to do so much for Sarah, but if she takes it into her head to oppose the marriage, I can do nothing with her. I never could."

"I am very far from minding," said Lady Mary. "But it is Sarah on whom everything depends. What does she say, I wonder? What does she want?"

"It's no use asking me what Sarah wants," said Mrs. Hewel, plaintively. "Time after time I have told her father what would come of it all if he spoilt her so outrageously. He is ready enough to find fault with the boys, poor fellows, who never do anything wrong; but he always thinks Sarah perfection, and nothing else."

"Sarah is very fortunate, for Peter has the same opinion of her."

"Fortunate! Lady Mary, if I were to tell you the chances that girl has had—not but what I had far rather she married Peter—though she might have done that all the same if she had never left home in her life."

"I am not so sure of that," said Peter's mother.

Lady Tintern's turn took her no further than the fountain garden, where she sank down upon a bench, and graciously requested her escort to occupy the vacant space by her side.

"I started at an unearthly hour this morning, and I am not so young as I was," she said; "but I am particularly desirous of a good night's rest, and I never can sleep with anything on my mind. So I came over here to talk business. By-the-by, I should have come over here long ago, if any one had had the sense to give me a hint that I had only to cross a muddy stream, in a flat-bottomed boat, in order to see a face like that—" She nodded towards the terrace.

John's colour rose slightly. He put the nod and the smile, and the sharp glance of the dark eyes together, and perceived that Lady Tintern had drawn certain conclusions.

"There is some expression in her face," said the old lady, musingly, "which makes me think of Marie Stuart's farewell to France. I don't know why. I have odd fancies. I believe the Queen of Scots had hazel eyes, whereas this pretty Lady Mary has the bluest eyes I ever saw—quite remarkable eyes."

"Those blue eyes," said John, smiling, "have never looked beyond this range of hills since Lady Mary's childhood."

The old lady nodded again. "Eh—a State prisoner. Yes, yes. She has that kind of look." Then she turned to John, with mingled slyness and humour, "On va changer tout cela?"

"As you have divined," he answered, laughing in spite of himself. "Though how you have divined it passes my poor powers of comprehension."

Lady Tintern was pleased. She liked tributes to her intelligence as other women enjoy recognition of their good looks.

"It is very easy, to an observer," she said. "She is frightened at her own happiness. Yes, yes. And that cub of a boy would not make it easier. By-the-by, I came to talk of the boy. You are his guardian?"

"For a week."

"What does it signify for how long? Five minutes will settle my views. Thank Heaven I did not come later, or I should have had to talk to him, instead of to a man of sense. You must have seen what is going on. What do you think of it?"

"The arrangement suits me so admirably," said John, smiling, "that I am hardly to be relied upon for an impartial opinion."

"Will you tell me his circumstances?"

John explained them in a few words, and with admirable terseness and lucidity; and she nodded comprehensively all the while.

"That's capital. He can't make ducks and drakes of it. All tied up on the children. I hope they will have a dozen. It would serve Sarah right. Now for my side. Whatever sum the trustees decide to settle upon Sir Peter's wife, I will put down double that sum as Sarah's dowry. Our solicitors can fight the rest out between them. The property is much better than I had been given any reason to suspect. I have no more to say. They can be married in a month. That is settled. I never linger over business. We may shake hands on it." They did so with great cordiality. "It is not that I am overjoyed at the match," she explained, with great frankness. "I think Sarah is a fool to marry a boy. But I have observed she is a fool who always knows her own mind. The fancies of some girls of that age are not worth attending to."

"Miss Sarah is a young lady of character," said John, gravely.

"Ay, she will settle him," said Lady Tintern. Her small, grim face relaxed into a witchlike smile.

"The lad is a good lad. No one has ever said a word against him, and he is as steady as old Time. I believe Miss Sarah's choice, if he is her choice, will be justified," said John.

"I didn't think he was a murderer or a drunkard," said Lady Tintern, cheerfully. Her phraseology was often startling to strangers. "But he is absolutely devoid of—what shall I say? Chivalry? Yes, that is it. Few young men have much nowadays, I am told. But Sir Peter has none—absolutely none."

"It will come."

"No, it will not come. It is a quality you are born with or without. He was born without. Sarah knows all about it. It won't hurt her; she has the methods of an ox. She goes direct to her point, and tramples over everything that stands in her way. If he were less thick-skinned she would be the death of him; but fortunately he has the hide of a rhinoceros."

"I think you do them both a great deal less than justice," said John; but he was unable to help laughing.

"Oh, you do, do you? I like to be disagreed with." Her voice shook a little. "You must make allowances—for an old woman—who is—disappointed," said Lady Tintern.

John said nothing, but his bright hazel eyes, looking down on the small, bent figure, grew suddenly gentle and sympathetic.

"It is a pleasure to be able to congratulate somebody," she said, returning his look. "I congratulate you—and Lady Mary."

"Thank you."

"Most of all, because there is nothing modern about her. She has walked straight out of the Middle Ages, with the face of a saint and a dreamer and a beautiful woman, all in one. I am an old witch, and I am never deceived in a woman. Men, I am sorry to say, no longer take the trouble to deceive me. Now our business is over, will you take me back?"

She took the arm he offered, and tottered back to the terrace.

"Bring her to see me in London, and bring her as soon as you can," said. Lady Tintern. "She is the friend I have dreamed of, and never met. When is it going to be?"

"At once," said John, calmly.

"You are the most sensible man I have seen for a long time," said Lady Tintern.

* * * * *

Peter and Sarah hardly exchanged a word during their return journey from the moors after the unlucky picnic; and at the door of Happy Jack's cottage in Youlestone village she commanded her obedient swain to deposit the luncheon basket, and bade him farewell.

The aged road-mender, to his intense surprise and chagrin, had one morning found himself unable to rise from his bed. He lay there for a week, indignant with Providence for thus wasting his time.

"There bain't nart the matter wi' I! Then why be I a-farced to lie thic way?" he said faintly. "If zo be I wor bod, I cude understand, but I bain't bod. There bain't no pain tu speak on no-wheres. It vair beats my yunderstanding."

"Tis old age be the matter wi' yu, vather," said his mate, a young fellow of sixty or so, who lodged with him.

"I bain't nigh so yold as zum," said Happy Jack, peevishly. "Tis a nice way vor a man tu be tuke, wi'out a thing the matter wi' un, vor the doctor tu lay yold on."

Dr. Blundell soothed him by giving his illness a name.

"It's Anno Domini, Jack."

"What be that? I niver yeard till on't befar," he said suspiciously.

"It's incurable, Jack," said the doctor, gravely.

Happy Jack was consoled. He rolled out the word with relish to his next visitor.

"Him's vound it out at last. 'Tis the anny-dominy, and 'tis incurable. You'm can't du nart vor I. I got tu go; and 'taint no wonder, wi' zuch a complaint as I du lie here wi'. The doctor were vair beat at vust; but him worried it out wi' hisself tu the last. Him's a turble gude doctor, var arl he wuden't go tu the war."

Sarah visited him every day. He was so frail and withered a little object that it seemed as though he could waste no further, and yet he dwindled daily. But he suffered no pain, and his wits were bright to the end.

This evening the faint whistle of his voice was fainter than ever, and she had to bend very low to catch his gasping words. He lay propped up on the pillows, with a red scarf tied round the withered scrag of his throat, and his spotless bed freshly arrayed by his mate's mother, who lived with them and "did for" both.

"They du zay as Master Peter be carting of 'ee, Miss Zairy," he whispered. "Be it tru?"

"Yes, Jack dear, it's true. Are you glad?"

"I be glad if yu thinks yu'll git 'un," wheezed poor Jack. "'Twude be a turble gude job var 'ee tu git a yusband. But doan't 'ee make tu shar on 'un, Miss Zairy. 'Un du zay as him be turble vond on yu, and as yu du be playing vast and loose wi' he. That's the ways a young maid du go on, and zo the young man du slip thru' 'un's vingers."

"Yes, Jack," said Sarah, with unwonted meekness.

She looked round the little unceiled room, open on one side to the wooden staircase which led to the kitchen below; at the earth-stained corduroys hanging on a peg; at the brown mug which held Happy Jack's last meal, and all he cared to take—a thin gruel.

"'Twude be a grand marriage vor the likes o' yu, Miss Zairy, vor the Crewys du be the yoldest vambly in all Devonsheer, as I've yeard tell; and yure volk bain't never comed year at arl befar yure grandvather's time. Eh, what a tale there were tu tell when old Sir Timothy married Mary Ann! 'Twas a vine scandal vor the volk, zo 'twere; but I wuden't niver give in tu leaving Youlestone. But doan't 'ee play the vule wi' Master Peter, Miss Zairy. Take 'un while yu can git 'un, will 'ee? And be glad tu git 'un. Yu listen tu I, vor I be a turble witty man, and I be giving of yu gude advice, Miss Zairy."

"I am listening, Jack, and you know I always take your advice."

"Ah! if 'twerent' for the anny-dominy, I'd be tu yure wedding," sighed Happy Jack, "zame as I were tu Mary Ann's. Zo I wude."

She took his knotted hand, discoloured with the labour of eighty years, and bade him farewell.

"Thee be a lucky maid," said Happy Jack, closing his eyes.

* * * * *

The tears were yet glistening on Sarah's long lashes, when she met the doctor on his way to the cottage she had just quitted.

She was in no mood for talking, and would have passed him with a hasty greeting, but the melancholy and fatigue of his bearing struck her quick perceptions.

She stopped short, and held out her hand impulsively.

"Dr. Blunderbuss," said Sarah, "did you very much want Peter to find out that—that he could live without his mother?"

"Has anything happened?" said the doctor; his thin face lighted up instantly with eager interest and anxiety.

"Only that" said Sarah. "You trusted me, so I'm trusting you. Peter's found out everything. And—and he isn't going to let her sacrifice her happiness to him, after all. I'll answer for that. So perhaps, now, you won't say you're sorry you told me?"

"For God's sake, don't jest with me, my child!" said the doctor, putting a trembling hand on her arm. "Is anything—settled?"

"Do I ever jest when people are in earnest? And how can I tell you if it's settled?" said Sarah, in a tone between laughing and weeping. "I—I'm going there to-night. I oughtn't to have said anything about it, only I knew how much you wanted her to be happy. And—she's going to be—that's all."

The doctor was silent for a. moment, and Sarah looked away from him, though she was conscious that he was gazing fixedly at her face. But she did not know that he saw neither her blushing cheeks, nor the groups of tall fern on the red earth-bank beyond her, nor the whitewashed cob walls of Happy Jack's cottage. His dreaming eyes saw only Lady Mary in her white gown, weeping and agitated, stumbling over the threshold of a darkened room into the arms of John Crewys.

"You said you wished it," said Sarah.

She stole a hasty glance at him, half frightened by his silence and his pallor, remembering suddenly how little the fulfilment of his wishes could have to do with his personal happiness.

The doctor recovered himself. "I wish it with all my heart," he said. He tried to smile. "Some day, if you will, you shall tell me how you managed it. But perhaps—not just now."

"Can't you guess?" she said, opening her eyes in a wonder stronger than discretion.

How was it possible, she thought, that such a clever man should be so dull?

The doctor shook his head. "You were always too quick for me, little Sarah," he said. "I am only glad, however it happened, that—she—is to be happy at last." He had no thoughts to spare for Sarah, or any other. As she lingered he said absently, "Is that all?"

She looked at him, and was inspired to leave the remorseful and sympathetic words that rushed to her lips unsaid.

"That is all," said Sarah, gently, "for the present."

Then she left him alone, and took her way down to the ferry.



CHAPTER XXI

"The very last of the roses," said Lady Mary.

She looked round the banqueting hall. The wax candles shed a radiance upon their immediate surroundings, which accentuated the shadows of each unlighted corner. Bowls of roses, red and white and golden, bloomed delicately in every recess against the black oak of the panels.

The flames were leaping on the hearth about a fresh log thrown into the red-hot wood-ash. The two old sisters sat almost in the chimney corner, side by side, where they could exchange their confidences unheard.

Lady Belstone still mourned her admiral in black silk and crepe, whilst Miss Georgina's respect for her brother's memory was made manifest in plum-coloured satin.

Lady Mary, too, wore black to-night. Since the day of Peter's return she had not ventured to don her favourite white. Her gown was of velvet; her fair neck and arms shone through the yellowing folds of an old lace scarf which veiled the bosom. A string of pearls was twisted in her soft, brown hair, lending a dim crown to her exquisite and gracious beauty in the tender light of the wax candles.

Candlelight is kind to the victims of relentless time; disdaining to notice the little lines and shadows care has painted on tired faces; restoring delicacy to faded complexions, and brightness to sad eyes.

The faint illumination was less kind to Sarah, in her white gown and blue ribbons. The beautiful colour, which could face the morning sunbeams triumphantly in its young transparency, was almost too high in the warmth of the shadowy hall, where her golden-red hair made a glory of its own.

The October evening seemed chilly to the aged sisters, and even Lady Mary felt the comfort of her velvet gown; but Sarah was impatient of the heat of the log fire, and longed for the open air. She envied Peter and John, who were reported to be smoking outside on the terrace.

"The very last of the roses," said Lady Mary.

"There will be a sharp frost to-night; they won't stand that," said Sarah, shaking her head.

"The poor roses of autumn," said Lady Mary, rather dreamily, "they are never so sweet as the roses of June."

"But they are much rarer, and more precious," said Sarah.

Lady Mary looked at her and smiled. How quickly Sarah always understood!

Sarah caught her hand and kissed it impulsively. Her back was turned to the old sisters in the chimney corner.

"Lady Mary," she said, "oh, never mind if I am indiscreet; you know I am always that." A little sob escaped her. "But I must ask you this one thing—you—you didn't really think that of me, did you?"

"Think what, dear child?" said Lady Mary, bewildered.

Sarah looked round at the two old ladies.

The head of Miss Crewys was inclined towards the crochet she held in her lap. She slumbered peacefully.

Lady Belstone was absently gazing into the heart of the great fire. The heat did not appear to cause her inconvenience. She was nodding.

"They will hear nothing," said Lady Mary, softly. "Tell me, Sarah, what you mean. I would ask you," she said, with a little smile and flush, "to tell me something else, only, I—too—am afraid of being indiscreet."

"There is nothing I would not tell you," murmured Sarah, "though I believe I would rather tell you—out in the dark—than here," she laughed nervously.

"The drawing-room is not lighted, except by the moon," said Lady Mary, also a little excited by the thought of what Sarah might, perhaps, be going to say; "but there is no fire there, I am afraid. The aunts do not like sitting there in the evening. But if you would not be too cold, in that thin, white gown—?"

"I am never cold," said Sarah; "I take too much exercise, I suppose, to feel the cold."

"Then come," said Lady Mary.

They stole past the sleeping sisters into the drawing-room, and closed the communicating door as noiselessly as possible.

Here only the moonlight reigned, pouring in through the uncurtained windows and rendering the gay, rose-coloured room, with its pretty contents, perfectly weird and unfamiliar.

Sarah flung her warm, young arms about her earliest and most beloved friend, and rested her bright head against the gentle bosom.

"You never thought I meant all the horrid, cruel things I made Peter say to you? You never believed it of me, did you? That I wouldn't marry him unless you went away. You whom I love best in the world, and always have," she said defiantly, "or that I would ever alter a single corner of this dear old house, which used to be so hideous, and which you have made so beautiful?"

"Sarah! My—my darling!" said Lady Mary, in frightened, trembling tones.

"You needn't blame Peter for saying any of it," said Sarah, "for it was I who put the words into his mouth. It made him miserable to say them; but he could not help himself. He wasn't really quite responsible for his actions. He isn't now. When people are—are in love, I've often noticed they're not responsible."

"But why—"

"I only wanted to show him what a goose he really was," murmured Sarah, hanging her head. "He came back so pompous and superior; talking about his father's place, and being the only man in the house, and obliged to look after you all; and it was all so ridiculous, and so out of date. I didn't mean to hurt you except just for a moment, because it could not be helped," said Sarah. She hid her face in Lady Mary's neck, half laughing and half crying. "I was so afraid you—you were taking him seriously; and—and he was so selfish, wanting to keep you all to himself."

"Oh, Sarah, hush!" Lady Mary cried.

She divined it all in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye. It was to Sarah that she owed the pain and mortification, not to her boy.

Sarah had said Peter was not responsible.

Was he only a puppet in the hands of the girl he loved? Could John ever have been thus blindly led and influenced? Her wounded heart said quickly that John was of a different, nobler, stronger nature. But the mother's instinct leapt to defend her son, and cried also that John was a man, and Peter but a boy in love, ready to sacrifice the whole world to her he worshipped. His father would never have done that. Lady Mary was even capable of an unreasoning pride in Peter's power of loving; though it was not her—alas! it never had been her—for whom her boy was willing to make the smallest sacrifice.

But he had honestly meant to devote himself to his mother, according to his lights, had Sarah's influence not come in the way. Sarah, who must have divined her secret all the while, and who, with the dauntlessness of youth, had not hesitated to force open the door into a world so bright that Lady Mary almost feared to enter it, but trembled, as it were, upon the threshold of her own happiness—and Peter's.

They were silent, holding each other in a close embrace, both conscious of the passing and repassing footsteps upon the gravel path without.

Sarah was the first to recover herself. She put Lady Mary into her favourite chair, and came and knelt by her side.

"That's over, and I'm forgiven," she said softly.

"You will make my boy—happy?" whispered Lady Mary.

"I can't tell whether he will be happy or not, if—if he marries me," said Sarah. She appeared to smother a laugh. "But Aunt Elizabeth seems reconciled to the idea. I think you bewitched her this afternoon. She is in love with you, and with this house, and with Mr. John. But more particularly with you. When I said I had refused Peter over and over again, she said I was a fool. But she says that whatever I do. I—I suppose I let her think," said Sarah, leaning her head against Lady Mary's knee, "that some day—if he is still idiotic enough to wish it—and if you don't mind—"

"My pretty Sarah—my darling!"

"I'm sure it's only because he's your son," said Sarah, vehemently; "I've always wanted to be your child. What's the use of pretending I haven't? Think what a time poor mamma used to give me, and what an angel of goodness you were to the poor little black sheep who loved you so."

Sarah's white dress, shining in the moonlight, caught the attention of John Crewys, through the open window. He paused in his walk outside. Peter's voice uttered something, and the two dark figures passed slowly on.

"They won't interrupt us," said Sarah, serenely. "I told Peter at dinner that I wanted to talk to you, and that he was to go and smoke with Mr. John, and behave as if nothing had happened. He said he hadn't spoken to him since this morning. He is all agog to know what Lady Tintern came for. But he won't dare to come and interrupt."

"What have you done to my boy," said Lady Mary, half laughing and half indignant, "that your lightest word is to be his law? And oh, Sarah"—her tone grew wistful—"it is strange—even though he loves you, that you should understand him better than I, who would lay down my life for him."

"It's very easy to see why," said Sarah, calmly. The deep contralto music of her voice contrasted oddly with her matter-of-fact manner and words. "It's just that Peter and I are made of common clay, and that you are not. So, of course, we understand each other. I don't mean to say that we don't quarrel pretty often. I dare say we always shall. I am good-tempered, but I like my own way; and, besides"—she spoke quite cheerfully—"anybody would quarrel with Peter. But you and he are a little like Aunt Elizabeth and me. She wants me to behave like a grande dame, and to know exactly who everybody is, and treat them accordingly, and be never too much interested in anything, but never bored; and always look beautiful, and, above all, appropriate. And I—would rather be taking the dogs for a run on the moors, in a short skirt and big boots; or up at four in the morning otter-hunting; or out with the hounds; or—or—digging in the garden, for that matter;—than be the prettiest girl in London, and going to a State ball or the opera. You see, I've tried both kinds of life now, and I know which I like best. And—and flirting with people is pleasant enough in its way, but it gives you a kind of sick feeling afterwards, which hunting never does. I don't think I'm really much of a hand at sentiment," said Sarah, with great truth.

"And Peter?" asked Lady Mary, gently.

"You wanted Peter to be a—a noble kind of person, a great statesman, or something of that sort, didn't you?" Her soft lips caressed Lady Mary's hand apologetically. "To be fond of reading and poetry, and all sorts of things; and he wanted to shoot rabbits and go fishing. But, of course, he couldn't help knowing you wanted him to be something he wasn't, and never could be, and didn't want to be."

"Oh, Sarah!" said poor Lady Mary. "But—yes, it is true what you are saying."

"It's true, though I say it so badly; and I know it, because, as I tell you, Peter and I are just the same sort at heart. I've been teasing him, pretending to be a worldling, but foreign travel and entertaining in London are just about as unsuited to me as to Peter. I—I'm glad"—she uttered a quick, little sob—"that I—I played my part well while it all lasted; but you know it wasn't so much me as my looks that did it. And because I didn't care, I was blunt and natural, and they thought it chic. But it wasn't chic; it was that I really didn't care. And I don't think I've ever quite succeeded in taking Peter in either; for he couldn't believe I could really think any sort of life worth living but the dear old life down here, which he and I love best in the world, in our heart of hearts."

The twinkling, frosty blue points of starlight glittered in the cloudless vault of heaven, above the moonlit stillness of the valley. The clear-cut shadows of the balcony and the stone urns fell across the cold paths and whitened grass of the terrace.

Ghostlike, Sarah's white form emerged from the darkness of the room, and stood on the threshold of the window.

John threw away the end of his cigar, and smiled. "I presume the interview we were not to interrupt is over?" he said, good-humouredly. "Surely it is not very prudent of Miss Sarah to venture out-of-doors in that thin gown; or has she a cloak of some kind—"

But Peter was not listening to him.

Sarah, wrapped in her white cloak and hood, had already flitted across the moonlit terrace, into the deep shadow of the ilex grove; and the boy was by her side before John could reach the window she had just quitted.

"Oh, is it you, Peter?" said Miss Sarah, looking over her shoulder. "I was looking for you. I have put on my things. It is getting late, and I thought you would see me home."

"Must you go already?" cried Peter. "Have they sent to fetch you?"

"I dare say I could stay a few moments," said Sarah; "but, of course, my maid came ages ago, as usual. But if there was anything you particularly wanted to say—you know how tiresome she is, keeping as close as she can, to listen to every word—why, it would be better to say it now. I am not in such a hurry as all that."

"You know very well I want to say a thousand things," said Peter, vehemently. "I have been walking up and down till I thought I should go mad, making conversation with John Crewys." Peter was honestly unaware that it was John who had made the conversation. "Has Lady Tintern come to take you away, Sarah? And why did she call on my mother this afternoon, the very moment she arrived?"

"Your mother would be the proper person to tell you that. How should I know?" said Sarah, reprovingly. "Have you asked her?"

"How can I ask her?" said Peter. His voice trembled. "I've not spoken to her once—except before other people—since John Crewys told me—what I told you this afternoon. I've scarcely seen any one since I left you. I wandered off for a beastly walk in the woods by myself, as miserable as any fellow would be, after all you said to me. Do you think I—I've got no feelings?"

His voice sounded very forlorn, and Sarah felt remorseful. After all, Peter was her comrade and her oldest friend, as well as her lover. At the very bottom of her heart there lurked a remnant of her childish admiration for him, which would, perhaps, never quite be extinguished. The boy who got into scrapes, and was thrashed by his father, and who did not mind; the boy who vaulted over fences she had to climb or creep through; who went fishing, and threw a fly with so light and sure a hand, and filled his basket, whilst she wound her line about her skirts, and caught her hook, and whipped the stream in vain. He had climbed a tall fir-tree once, and brought down in safety a weeping, shame-stricken little girl with a red pigtail, whose daring had suddenly failed her; and he had gone up the tree himself like a squirrel afterwards, and fetched her the nest she coveted. Nor did he ever taunt her with her cowardice nor revert to his own exploit; but this was because Peter forgot the whole adventure in an hour, though Sarah remembered it to the end of her life. He climbed so many trees, and went birds'-nesting every spring to his mother's despair.

Sarah thought of him wandering all the afternoon in his own woods, lonely and mortified, listening to the popping of the guns on the opposite side of the hill, which echoed through the valley; she knew what those sounds meant to Peter—the boy who had shot so straight and true, and who would never shoulder a gun any more.

"I don't see why you should be so miserable," she said, as lightly as she could; but there were tears in her eyes, she was so sorry for Peter.

"I dare say you don't," said Peter, bitterly. "Nobody has ever made a fool of you, no doubt. A wretched, self-confident fool, who gave you his whole heart to trample in the dust. I suppose I ought to have known you were only—playing with me—as you said—a wretched object as I am now, but—"

"An object!" cried Sarah, so anxious to stem the tide of his reproaches that she scarce knew what she was saying, "which appeals to the soft side of every woman's heart, high or low, rich or poor, civilized or savage—a wounded soldier."

"Do you think I want to be pitied?" said Peter, glowering.

"Pitied!" said Sarah, softly. "Do you call this pity?" She leant forward and kissed his empty sleeve.

Peter trembled at her touch.

"It is—because you are sorry for me," he said hoarsely.

"Sorry!" said Sarah, scornfully; "I glory in it." Then she suddenly began to cry. "I am a wicked girl," she sobbed, "and you were a fool, if you ever thought I could be happy anywhere but in this stupid old valley, or with—with any one but you. And I am rightly punished if my—my behaviour has made you change your mind. Because I did mean, just at first, to throw you over, and to—to go away from you, Peter. But—but the arm that wasn't there—held me fast."

"Sarah!"

She hid her face against his shoulder.

* * * * *

John Crewys was playing softly on the little oak piano in the banqueting hall, and Lady Mary stood before the open hearth, absently watching the sparks fly upward from the burning logs, and listening.

The old sisters had gone to bed.

Sarah's bright face, framed in her white hood, fresh and rosy from the cold breath of the October night, appeared in the doorway.

"Peter is in there—waiting for you," she whispered, blushing.

John Crewys rose from the piano, and came forward and held out his hand to Sarah, with a smile.

Lady Mary hurried past them into the unlighted drawing-room. Her eyes, dazzled by the sudden change, could distinguish nothing for a moment.

But Peter was there, waiting, and perhaps Lady Mary was thankful for the darkness, which hid her face from her son.

"Peter!"

"Mother!"

She clung to her boy, and a kiss passed between them which said all that was in their hearts that night—of appeal—of understanding—of forgiveness—of the love of mother and son.

And no foolish words of explanation were ever uttered to mar the gracious memory of that sacred reconciliation.

THE END