"Her didn't make much account on him while him were alive; but now 'ce
be dead, 'tis butivul tu zee how her du take on," said Happy Jack.
There was a soft mist of heat; the long-delayed spring coming
suddenly, after storms of cold rain and gales of wind had swept the
Youle valley. Two days' powerful sunshine had excited the buds to
breaking, and drawn up the tender blades of young grass from the
soaked earth.
The flowering laurels hung over the shady banks, whereon large
families of primroses spent their brief and lovely existence
undisturbed. The hawthorn put forth delicate green leaves, and the
white buds of the cherry-trees in the orchard were swelling on their
leafless boughs.
In such summer warmth, and with the concert of building birds above
and around, it was strange to see the dead and wintry aspect of the
forest trees; still bare and brown, though thickening with the red
promise of foliage against the April sky.
John Crewys, climbing the lane next the waterfall, had been hailed by
the roadside by the toothless, smiling old rustic.
"I be downright glad to zee 'ee come back, zur; ay, that 'a be. What
vur du 'ee go gadding London ways, zays I, when there be zuch a turble
lot to zee arter? and the ladyship oop Barracombe ways, her bain't vit
var tu du 't, as arl on us du know. Tis butivul tu zee how her takes
on," he repeated admiringly.
John glanced uneasily at his companion, who stood with downcast eyes.
"Lard, I doan't take no account on Miss Zairy," said the road-mender,
leaning on his hoe and looking sharply from the youthful lady to the
middle-aged gentleman. "I've knowed her zince her wur a little maid. I
used tu give her lolly-pops. Yu speak up, Miss Zairy, and tell 'un if
I didn't."
"To be sure you did, Father Jack," said Sarah, promptly.
"Ah, zo 'a did," said the old man, chuckling. "Zo 'a did, and her
ladyship avore yu. I mind _her_ when her was a little maid, and pretty
ways her had wi' her, zame as now. None zo ramshacklin' as yu du be,
Miss Zairy."
"There's nobody about that he doesn't remember as a child," said
Sarah, apologetically. "He's so old, you see. He doesn't remember how
old he is, and nobody can tell him. But he knows he was born in the
reign of George the Third, because his mother told him so; and he
remembers his father coming in with news of the Battle of Waterloo, So
I think he must be about ninety."
"Lard, mar like a hunderd year old, I be," said Happy Jack, offended.
"And luke how I du wark yit. Yif I'd 'a give up my wark, I shude 'a
bin in the churchyard along o' the idlers, that 'a shude." He chuckled
and winked. "I du be a turble vunny man," quavered the thin falsetto
voice. "They be niver a dune a laughin' along o' my jokes. An' I du
remember Zur Timothy's vather zo well as Zur Timothy hisself, though
'ee bin dead nigh sixty year. Lard, 'ee was a bad 'un, was y' ould
squire. An old devil. That's what 'ee was."
"He only means Sir Timothy's father had a bad temper," explained
Sarah. "It's quite true."
"Ah, was it timper?" said Jack, sarcastically. "I cude tell 'ee zum
tales on 'un. There were a right o' way, zur, acrust the mead thereby,
as the volk did claim. And 'a zays, 'A'll putt a stop tu 'un,' 'a
zays. And him zat on a style, long zide the tharn bush, and 'a took
'ee's gun, and 'a zays, 'A'll shute vust man are maid as cumes acrust
thiccy vield,' 'a zays. And us knowed 'un wude du 't tu. And 'un
barred the gate, and there t'was."
He laughed till the tears ran down his face, brown as gingerbread, and
wrinkled as a monkey's.
"Mr. Crewys is in a hurry, Jack," said Sarah. "He's only just arrived
from London, and he's walked all the way from Brawnton."
"'Tain't but a stip vur a vine vellar like 'ee, and wi' a vine maiden
like yu du be grown, var tu kip 'ee company," said Happy Jack. "But
'ee'll be in a yurry tu git tu Barracombe, and refresh hisself, in arl
this turble yeat. When the zun du search, the rain du voller."
"I dare say you want a glass of beer yourself," said John, producing a
coin from his pocket.
"No, zur, I doan't," said the road-mender, unexpectedly. "Beer doan't
agree wi' my inzide, an' it gits into my yead, and makes me proper
jolly, zo the young volk make game on me. But I cude du wi' a drop
o' zider zur; and drink your health and the young lady's, zur, zo 'a
cude."
He winked and nodded as he pocketed the coin; and John, half laughing
and half vexed, pursued his road with Sarah.
"It seems to me that the old gentleman has become a trifle free and
easy with advancing years," he observed.
"He thinks he has a right to be interested in the family," said Sarah,
"because of the connection, you see."
"The connection?"
"Didn't you know?" she asked, with wide-open eyes. "Though you were
Sir Timothy's own cousin."
"A very distant cousin," said John.
"But every one in the valley knows," said Sarah, "that Sir Timothy's
father married his own cook, who was Happy Jack's first cousin. When I
was a little girl, and wanted to tease Peter," she added ingenuously,
"I always used to allude to it. It is the skeleton in their cupboard.
We haven't got a skeleton in our family," she added regretfully;
"least of all the skeleton of a cook."
John remembered vaguely that there was a story about the second
marriage of Sir Timothy the elder.
"So she was a cook!" he said. "Well, what harm?" and he laughed in
spite of himself. "I wonder why there is something so essentially
unromantic in the profession of a cook?"
"Her family went to Australia, and they are quite rich people now:
no more cooks than you and me," said Sarah, gravely. "But Happy Jack
won't leave Youlestone, though he says they tempted him with untold
gold. And he wouldn't touch his hat to Sir Timothy, because he was his
cousin. That was another skeleton."
"But a very small one," said John, laughing.
"It might seem small to _us_, but I'm sure it was one reason why Sir
Timothy never went outside his own gates if he could help it," said
Sarah, shrewdly. "Luckily the cook died when he was born."
"Why luckily, poor thing?" said John, indignantly.
"She wouldn't have had much of a time, would she, do you think, with
Sir Timothy's sisters?" asked Sarah, with simplicity. "They were in
the schoolroom when their papa married her, or I am sure they would
never have allowed it. Their own mother was a most select person; and
little thought when she gave the orders for dinner, and all that, who
the old gentleman's _next_ wife would be," said Sarah, giggling. "They
always talk of her as the _Honourable Rachel_, since _Lady Crewys_,
you know, might just as well mean the cook. I suppose the old squire
got tired of her being so select, and thought he would like a change.
He was a character, you know. I often think Peter will be a character
when he grows old. He is so disagreeable at times."
"I thought you were so fond of Peter?" said John, looking amusedly
down on the little chatterbox beside him.
"Not exactly fond of him. It's just that I'm _used_ to him," said
Sarah, colouring all over her clear, fresh face, even to the little
tendrils of red hair on her white neck.
She wore a blue cotton frock, and a brown mushroom hat, with a wreath
of wild roses which had somewhat too obviously been sewn on in a hurry
and crookedly; and she looked far more like a village schoolgirl than
a young lady who was shortly to make her _début_ in London society.
But he was struck with the extraordinary brilliancy of her complexion,
transparent and pure as it was, in the searching sunlight.
"If she were not so round-shouldered--if the features were better--her
expression softer," said John to himself--"if divine colouring were
all--she would be beautiful."
But her wide, smiling mouth, short-tipped nose, and cleft chin,
conveyed rather the impression of childish audacity than of feminine
charm. The glance of those bright, inquisitive eyes was like a wild
robin's, half innocent, half bold. Though her round throat were white
as milk, and though no careless exposure to sun and wind had yet
succeeded in dimming the exquisite fairness of her skin, yet the
defects and omissions incidental to extreme youth, country breeding,
and lack of discipline, rendered Miss Sarah not wholly pleasing in
John's fastidious eyes. Her carriage was slovenly, her ungloved hands
were red, her hair touzled, and her deep-toned voice over-loud and
confident. Yet her frankness and her trustfulness could not fail to
evoke sympathy.
"It is--Lady Mary that I am fond of," said the girl, with a yet more
vivid blush.
He was touched. "She will miss you, I am sure, when you go to town,"
he said kindly.
"If I thought so really, I wouldn't go," said Sarah, vehemently. She
winked a tear from her long eyelashes. "But I know it's only your good
nature. She thinks of nothing and nobody but Peter. And--and, after
all, when I get better manners, and all that, I shall be more of a
companion to her. I'm very glad to go, if it wasn't for leaving _her_.
I like Aunt Elizabeth, whereas mamma and I never _did_ get on. She
cares most for the boys, which is very natural, no doubt, as I was
only an afterthought, and nobody wanted me. And Aunt Elizabeth has
always liked me. She says I amuse her with my sharp tongue."
"But you will have to be a little careful of the sharp tongue when you
get to London," said John, smiling. He was struck by the half-sly,
half-acquiescent look that Sarah stole at him from beneath those long
eyelashes. Perhaps her outspokenness was not so involuntary as he had
imagined.
"If I had known you were coming to-day, I would have gone up to say
good-bye to Lady Mary last night," said Sarah, mournfully. "She won't
want me now you are here."
"I have a thousand and one things to look after. I sha'n't be in your
way," said John, good-naturedly, "if she is not busy otherwise."
"Busy!" echoed Sarah. "She sits _so_, with her hands in her lap,
looking over the valley. And she has grown, oh, so much thinner and
sadder-looking. I thought you would never come."
"I have my own work," said John, hurriedly, "and I thought, besides,
she would rather be alone these first few weeks."
Sarah looked up with a flash in her blue eyes, which were so dark, and
large-pupilled, and heavily lashed, that they looked almost black. She
ground her strong white teeth together.
"If I were Lady Mary," she said, "I would have slammed the old front
door behind me the very day after Sir Timothy was buried--and gone
away; I would. There she is, like a prisoner, with the old ladies
counting every tear she sheds, and adding them up to see if it is
enough; and measuring every inch of crape on her gowns; and finding
fault with all she does, just as they used when Sir Timothy was alive
to back them up. And she is afraid to do anything he didn't like; and
she never listens to the doctor, the only person in the world who's
ever had the courage to fight her battles."
"The doctor," said John, sharply. "Has she been ill?"
"No, no."
"What has _he_ to do with Lady Mary?" said John.
His displeasure was so great that the colour rose in his clean-shaven
face, and did not escape little Sarah's observation, for all her
downcast lashes.
"Somebody must go and see her," said Sarah; "and you were away. And
the canon is just nobody, always bothering her for subscriptions;
though he is very fond of her, like everybody else," she added, with
compunction. "Dear me, Mr. Crewys, how fast you are walking!"
John had unconsciously quickened his pace so much that she had some
ado to keep up with him without actually running.
"I beg your pardon," he said.
"It is so hot, and the hill is steep, and I am rather fat. I dare say
I shall fine down as I get older," said Sarah, apologetically. "It
would be dreadful if I grew up like mamma. But I am more like my
father, thank goodness, and _he_ is simply a mass of hard muscle. I
dare say even I could beat you on the flat. But not up this drive.
Doesn't it look pretty in the spring?"
"It was very different when I left Barracombe," said John.
He looked round with all a Londoner's appreciation.
In the sunny corner next the ivy-clad lodge an early rhododendron
had burst into scarlet bloom. The steep drive was warmly walled and
sheltered on the side next the hill by horse-chestnuts, witch-elms,
tall, flowering shrubs and evergreens, and a variety of tree-azaleas
and rhododendrons which promised a blaze of beauty later in the
season.
But the other side of the drive lay in full view of the open
landscape; rolling grass slopes stretching down to the orchards
and the valley. Violets, white and blue, scented the air, and the
primroses clustered at the roots of the forest trees.
The gnarled and twisted stems of giant creepers testified to the age
of Barracombe House. Before the entrance was a level space, which made
a little spring garden, more formal and less varied in its arrangement
than the terrace gardens on the south front; but no less gay and
bright, with beds of hyacinths, red and white and purple, and
daffodils springing amidst their bodyguards of pale, pointed spears.
A wild cherry-tree at the corner of the house had showered snowy
petals before the latticed window of the study; the window whence Sir
Timothy had taken his last look at the western sky, and from which
his watchful gaze had once commanded the approach to his house, and
observed almost every human being who ventured up the drive.
On the ridge of the hill above, and in clumps upon the fertile slopes
of the side of the little valley, the young larches rose, newly
clothed in that light and brilliant foliage which darkens almost
before spring gives place to summer.
They found Lady Mary in the drawing-room; the sunshine streamed
towards her through the golden rain of a _planta-genista_, which stood
on a table in the western corner of the bow window. She was looking
out over the south terrace, and the valley and the river, just as
Sarah had said.
He was shocked at her pallor, which was accentuated by her black
dress; her sapphire blue eyes looked unnaturally large and clear; the
little white hands clasped in her lap were too slender; a few silver
threads glistened in the soft, brown hair. Above all, the hopeless
expression of the sad and gentle face went to John's heart.
_Was_ the doctor the only man in the world who had the courage to
fight her battles for this fading, grieving woman who had been the
lovely Mary Setoun; whom John remembered so careless, so laughing, so
innocently gay?
He was relieved that she could smile as he approached to greet her.
"I did not guess you would come by the early train," she said, in glad
tones. "But, oh--you must have walked all the way from Brawnton! What
will James Coachman say?"
"I wanted a walk," said John, "and I knew you would send to meet me if
I let you know. My luggage is at the station. James Coachman, as you
call him, can fetch that whenever he will."
"And I have come to say good-bye," said Sarah, forlornly.
She watched with jealous eyes their greeting, and Lady Mary's obvious
pleasure in John's arrival, and half-oblivion of her own familiar
little presence.
When Peter had first gone to school, his mother in her loneliness had
almost made a _confidante_ of little Sarah, the odd, intelligent child
who followed her about so faithfully, and listened so eagerly to those
dreamy, half-uttered confidences. She knew that Lady Mary wept because
her boy had left her; but she understood also that when Peter
came home for the holidays he brought little joy to his mother. A
self-possessed stripling now walked about the old house, and laid down
the law to his mamma--instead of that chubby creature in petticoats
who had once been Peter.
Lady Mary had dwelt on the far-off days of Peter's babyhood very
tenderly when she was alone with little Sarah, who sat and nursed her
doll, and liked very much to listen; she often felt awed, as though
some one had died; but she did not connect the story much with the
Peter of every day, who went fishing and said girls were rather a
nuisance.
Sarah, too, had had her troubles. She was periodically banished to
distant schools by a mother who disliked romping and hoydenish little
girls, as much as she doted on fat and wheezing lap-dogs. But as her
father, on the other hand, resented her banishment from home almost as
sincerely as Sarah herself, she was also periodically sent for to take
up her residence once more beneath the parental roof. Thus her life
was full of change and uncertainty; but, through it all, her devotion
to Lady Mary never wavered.
She looked at her now with a melancholy air which sat oddly upon her
bright, comical face, and which was intended to draw attention to the
pathetic fact of her own impending departure.
"I only came to say good-bye," said Sarah, in slightly injured tones.
"Ah! by-the-by, and I have promised not to intrude on the parting,"
said John, with twinkling eyes.
"It is not an eternal farewell," said Lady Mary, drawing Sarah kindly
towards her.
"It may be for _years_," said Sarah, rather offended. "My aunt
Elizabeth is as good as adopting me. Mamma said I was very lucky, and
I believe she is glad to be rid of me. But papa says he shall come and
see me in London. Aunt Elizabeth is going to take me to Paris and to
Scotland, and abroad every winter."
"Oh, Sarah, how you will be changed when you come back!" said Lady
Mary; and she laughed a little, with a hand on Sarah's shoulder; but
Sarah knew that Lady Mary was not thinking very much about her, all
the same.
"There is no fresh news, John?" she asked.
"Nothing since my last telegram," he answered. "But I have arranged
with the Exchange Telegraph Company to wire me anything of importance
during my stay here."
"You are always so good," she said.
Then he took pity on Sarah's impatience, and left the little
worshipper to the interview with her idol which she so earnestly
desired.
"I will go and pay my respects to my cousins," said John.
But the banqueting-hall was deserted, and gaps in the row of clogs and
goloshes suggested that the old ladies were taking a morning stroll.
They had not thought it proper to drive, save in a close carriage,
since their brother's death; and on such a warm day of spring weather
a close carriage was not inviting to country-bred people.