PETER'S MOTHER
NEW EDITION
WITH INTRODUCTION
BY
MRS. HENRY DE LA PASTURE
1906
_And I left my youth behind
For somebody else to find_.
TO THE BELOVED MEMORY OF MY ONLY BROTHER
LT. COLONEL WALTER FLOYD BONHAM, D.S.O.
TO MY AMERICAN READERS
The author of "Peter's Mother" has been bidden of the publishers, who
have incurred the responsibility of presenting her to the American
public, to write a preface to this edition of her novel. She does so
with the more diffidence because it has been impressed upon her, by
more than one wiseacre, that her novels treat of a life too narrow,
an atmosphere too circumscribed, to be understood or appreciated by
American readers.
No one can please everybody; I suppose that no one, except the old man
in Aesop's Fable, ever tried to do so. But I venture to believe that
to some Americans, a sincere and truthful portrait of a typical
Englishwoman of a certain class may prove attractive, as to us are the
studies of a "David Harum," or others whose characteristics interest
because--and not in spite of--their strangeness and unfamiliarity. We
do not recognise the type; but as those who do have acknowledged the
accuracy of the representation, we read, learn, and enjoy making
acquaintance with an individuality and surroundings foreign to our own
experience.
There are hundreds of Englishwomen living lives as isolated, as
guarded from all practical knowledge of the outer world, as entirely
circumscribed as the life of Lady Mary Crewys; though they are not all
unhappy. On the contrary, many diffuse content and kindness all around
them, and take it for granted that their own personal wishes are of no
account.
Indeed it would seem that some cease to be aware what their own
personal wishes are.
With anxious eyes fixed on others--the husband, father, sons, who
dominate them,--they live to please, to serve, to nurse, and to
console; revered certainly as queens of their tiny kingdoms, but also
helpless as prisoners.
Calm, as fixed stars, they regard (perhaps sometimes a little
wistfully) the orbits of brighter planets, and the flashing of
occasional meteors, within their ken; knowing that their own place is
unchangeable--immutable.
That the views of such women are often narrow, their prejudices many,
their conventions tiresome, who shall deny? That their souls are
pure and tender, their hearts open to kindness as are their hands
to charity, nobody who knows the type will dispute. They lack many
advantages which their more independent sisters (no less gifted with
noble and womanly qualities) enjoy, but they possess a peculiar
gentleness, which is all their own, whether it be adored or despised.
When one of their number happens to be cleverer, larger minded, more
restless, and impatient, it may be, by nature than her sisters,
tragedy may ensue. But not often. Habit and public opinion are
strong restrainers, stronger sometimes than even the most carefully
inculcated abstract principles.
To turn to another phase of the story--there was a time during the
Boer War when there was literally scarcely a woman in England who was
not mourning the death of some man--be he son, brother, or husband,
lover or friend,--and that time seems still very, very recent to some
of us.
The rights and wrongs of a war have nothing to do with the sympathy
all civilised men and women extend to the soldiers on both sides who
take part in it.
"_Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do or die_,"
and whether they "do or die," the mingled suspense, pride, and anguish
suffered by their women-kind rouses the pity of the world; but most of
all, for the secret of sympathy is understanding, the pity of those
who have suffered likewise. So that such escapades as Peter's in the
story, being not very uncommon at that dark period (and having its
foundation in fact), may have touched hearts over here, which will be
unmoved on the other side of the Atlantic. I cannot tell. I have known
very few Americans, and though I have counted those few among my
friends, they have been rarely met.
My only knowledge of America has been gleaned from my observation of
these, and from reading. As it happens, the favourite books of my
childhood were, with few exceptions, American.
Partly from association and partly because I count it the most truly
delightful story of its kind that ever was written, "Little Women" has
always retained its early place in my affections. "Meg," "Jo," "Beth,"
and "Amy" are my oldest and dearest friends; and when I think of them,
it is hard to believe that America could be a land of strangers to me
after all. I confess to a weakness for the "Wide, Wide World" and a
secret passion for "Queechy." I loved "Mr. Rutherford's Children," and
was always interested to hear "What Katy Did," Whilst the very thought
of "Melbourne House" thrills me with recollections of the joy I
experienced therein.
But this is all by the way; and for the egotism which is, I fear me,
displayed in this foreword, I can but plead, not only the difficulty
of writing a preface at all, when one has no personal inclination that
way, but the nervousness which must beset a writer who is directly
addressing not a tried and friendly public, but an unknown, and, it
may be, less easily pleased and more critical audience. It appears to
me that it would be a simpler thing to write another book; and I would
rather do so. I can only hope that some of the readers of "Peter's
Mother," if she is so happy as to find favour in American eyes, would
rather I did so too; in I which case I shall very joyfully try to
gratify their wishes, and my own.
BETTY DE LA PASTURE.
PETER'S MOTHER
CHAPTER I
Above Youlestone village, overlooking the valley and the river,
and the square-towered church, stood Barracombe House, backed by
Barracombe Woods, and owned by Sir Timothy Crewys, of Barracombe.
From the terrace before his windows Sir Timothy could take a
bird's-eye view of his own property, up the river and down the river;
while he also had the felicity of beholding the estate of his most
important neighbour, Colonel Hewel, of Hewelscourt, mapped out before
his eyes, as plainly visible in detail as land on the opposite side of
a narrow valley must always be.
He cast no envious glances at his neighbour's property. The Youle
was a boundary which none could dispute, and which could only be
conveniently crossed by the ferry, for the nearest bridge was seven
miles distant, at Brawnton, the old post-town.
From Brawnton the coach still ran once a week for the benefit of the
outlying villages, and the single line of rail which threaded the
valley of the Youle in the year 1900 was still a novelty to the
inhabitants of this unfrequented part of Devon.
Sir Timothy sometimes expressed a majestic pity for Colonel Hewel,
because the railway ran through some of his neighbour's best fields;
and also because Hewelscourt was on the wrong side of the river--faced
due north--and was almost buried in timber. But Colonel Hewel was
perfectly satisfied with his own situation, though sorry for Sir
Timothy, who lived within full view of the railway, but was obliged
to drive many miles round by Brawnton Bridge in order to reach the
station.
The two gentlemen seldom met. They lived in different parishes, and
administered justice in different directions. Sir Timothy's dignity
did not permit him to make use of the ferry, and he rarely drove
further than Brawnton, or rode much beyond the boundaries of his own
estate. He cared only for farming, whilst Colonel Hewel was devoted to
sport.
The Crewys family had been Squires of Barracombe, cultivating their
own lands and living upon them contentedly, for centuries before the
Hewels had ever been heard of in Devon, as all the village knew
very well; wherefore they regarded the Hewels with a mixture of
good-natured contempt and kindly tolerance. The contempt was because
Hewelscourt had been built within the memory of living man, and only
two generations of Hewels born therein; the tolerance because the
present owner, though not a wealthy man, was as liberal in his
dealings as their squire was the reverse.
* * * * *
In the reign of Charles I., one Peter Crewys, an adventurous younger
son of this obscure but ancient Devonshire family, had gained local
notoriety by raising a troop of enthusiastic yeomen for his Majesty's
service; subsequently his own reckless personal gallantry won wider
recognition in many an affray with the parliamentary troops; and on
the death of his royal master, Peter Crewys was forced to fly the
country. He joined King Charles II. in his exile, whilst his prudent
elder brother severed all connection with him, denounced him as a
swashbuckler, and made his own peace with the Commonwealth.
The Restoration, however, caused Farmer Timothy to welcome his
relative home in the warmest manner, and the brothers were not only
reconciled in their old age, but the elder made haste to transfer
the ownership of Barracombe to the younger, in terror lest his own
disloyalty should be rewarded by confiscation of the family acres.
A careless but not ungrateful monarch, rejoicing doubtless to see his
faithful soldier and servant so well provided for, bestowed on him a
baronetcy, a portrait by Vandyck of the late king, his father, and the
promise of a handsome sum of money, for the payment of which the
new baronet forebore to press his royal patron. His services thus
recognized and rewarded, old Sir Peter Crewys settled down amicably
with his brother at Barracombe.
Presumably there had always been an excellent understanding between
them. In any case no question of divided interests ever arose.
Sir Peter enlarged the old Elizabethan homestead to suit his new
dignity; built a picture-gallery, which he stocked handsomely with
family portraits; designed terrace gardens on the hillside after a
fashion he had learnt in Italy, and adopted his eldest nephew as his
heir.
Old Timothy meanwhile continued to cultivate the land undisturbed,
disdaining newfangled ideas of gentility, and adhering in all ways to
the customs of his father. Presently, soldier and farmer also passed
away, and were laid to rest side by side on the banks of the Youle, in
the shadow of the square-towered church.
Before the house rolled rich meadows, open spaces of cornland, and
low-lying orchards. The building itself stood out boldly on a shelf of
the hill; successive generations of the Crewys family had improved or
enlarged it with more attention to convenience than to architecture.
The older portion was overshadowed by an imposing south front of white
stone, shaded in summer by a prolific vine, which gave it a foreign
appearance, further enhanced by rows of green shutters. It was
screened from the north by the hill, and from the east by a dense
wood. Myrtles, hydrangeas, magnolias, and orange-trees nourished
out-of-doors upon the sheltered terraces cut in the red sandstone.
The woods of Barracombe stretched upwards to the skyline of the ridge
behind the house, and were intersected by winding paths, bordered
by hardy fuchsias and delicate ferns. A rushing stream dropped from
height to height on its rocky course, and ended picturesquely and
usefully in a waterfall close to the village, where it turned an old
mill-wheel before disappearing into the Youle.
If the Squire of Barracombe overlooked from his terrace garden
the inhabitants of the village and the tell-tale doorway of the
much-frequented inn on the high-road below--his tenants in the valley
and on the hillside were privileged in turn to observe the goings-in
and comings-out of their beloved landlord almost as intimately; nor
did they often tire of discussing his movements, his doings, and even
his intentions.
His monotonous life provided small cause for gossip or speculation;
but when the opportunity arose, it was eagerly seized.
In the failing light of a February afternoon a group of labourers
assembled before the hospitably open door of the Crewys Arms.
"Him baint been London ways vor uppard of vivdeen year, tu my zurtain
knowledge," said the old road-mender, jerking his empty pewter upwards
in the direction of the terrace, where Sir Timothy's solid dark form
could be discerned pacing up and down before his white house.
"Tis vur a ligacy. You may depend on't. 'Twas vur a ligacy last time,"
said a brawny ploughman.
"Volk doan't git ligacies every day," said the road-mender,
contemptuously. "I zays 'tis Master Peter. Him du be just the age when
byes du git drubblezum, gentle are zimple. I were drubblezum myself as
a bye."
"'Twas tu fetch down this 'ere London jintle-man as comed on here wi'
him to-day, I tell 'ee. His cousin, are zuch like. Zame name, anyways,
var James Coachman zaid zo."
"Well, I telled 'ee zo," said the road-mender. "He's brart down the
nextest heir, var tu keep a hold over Master Peter, and I doan't blame
'un."
"James Coachman telled me vive minutes zince as zummat were up. 'Ee
zad such arders var tu-morrer morning, 'ee says, as niver 'ee had
befar," said the landlord.
"Thart James Coachman weren't niver lit tu come here," said the
road-mender, slyly. His toothless mouth extended into the perpetual
smile which had earned him the nickname of "Happy Jack," over sixty
years since, when he had been the prettiest lad in the parish.
"He only snicked down vor a drop o' brandy, vur he were clean rampin'
mazed wi' tuth-ache. He waited till pretty nigh dusk var the ole
ladies tu be zafe. 'Ee says they du take it by turns zo long as
daylight du last, tu spy out wi' their microscopes, are zum zuch, as
none of Sir Timothy's volk git tarking down this ways. A drop o' my
zider might git tu their 'yeds," said the landlord, sarcastically,
"though they drinks Sir Timothy's by the bucket-vull up tu
Barracombe."
"'Tis stronger than yars du be," said Happy Jack. "There baint no
warter put tu't, Joe Gudewyn. The warter-varl be tu handy vur yure
brewin'."
"Zum of my customers has weak 'yeds, 'tis arl the better for they,"
said Goodwyn, calmly.
"Then charge 'em accardin', Mr. Landlord, charge 'em accardin',
zays I. Warter doan't cost 'ee nart, du 'un?" said Happy Jack,
triumphantly.
"'Ere be the doctor goin' on in's trap, while yu du be tarking zo,"
said the ploughman. "Lard, he du be a vast goer, be Joe Blundell."
"I drove zo vast as that, and vaster, when I kip a harse," said the
road-mender, jealously. "'Ee be a young man, not turned vifty. I mind
his vather and mother down tu Cullacott befar they was wed. Why doan't
he go tu the war, that's what I zay?"
"Sir Timothy doan't hold wi' the war," said the landlord.
"Mar shame vor 'un," said Happy Jack. "But me and Zur Timothy, us
made up our minds tu differ long ago. I'm arl vor vighting
vurriners--Turks, Rooshans, Vrinchmen; 'tis arl one tu I."
"Why doan't 'ee volunteer thyself, Vather Jack? Thee baint turned
nointy yit, be 'ee?" said a labourer, winking heavily, to convey to
the audience that the suggestion was a humorous one.
"Ah, zo I wude, and shute Boers wi' the best on 'un. But the
Governmint baint got the zince tu ax me," said Happy Jack, chuckling.
"The young volk baint nigh zo knowing as I du be. Old Kruger wuden't
ha' tuke in I, try as 'un wude. I be zo witty as iver I can be."
Dr. Blundell saluted the group before the inn as he turned his horse
to climb the steep road to Barracombe.
No breath of wind stirred, and the smoke from the cottage chimneys was
lying low in the valley, hovering over the river in the still air.
A few primroses peeped out of sheltered corners under the hedge, and
held out a timid promise of spring. The doctor followed the red road
which wound between Sir Timothy's carefully enclosed plantations of
young larch, passed the lodge gates, which were badly in need of
repair, and entered the drive.