Lady Mary came down the oak staircase singing. The white draperies of
her summer gown trailed softly on the wide steps, and in her hands she
carried a quantity of roses. A black ribbon was bound about her waist,
and seemed only to emphasize the slenderness of her form. Her brown
hair was waved loosely above her brow; it was not much less abundant,
though much less bright, than in her girlhood. The freshness of youth
had gone for ever; but her loveliness had depended less upon that
radiant colouring which had once been hers than upon her clear-cut
features, and exquisitely shaped head and throat. Her blue eyes looked
forth from a face white and delicate as a shell cameo, beneath finely
pencilled brows; but they shone now with a new hopefulness--a timid
expectancy of happiness; they were no longer pensive and downcast as
Peter had known them best.
The future had been shrouded by a heavy mist of hopelessness
always--for Lady Mary. But the fog had lifted, and a fair landscape
lay before her. Not bright, alas! with the brightness and the promise
of the morning-time; but yet--there are sunny afternoons; and the
landscape was bright still, though long shadows from the past fell
across it.
Peter saw only that his mother, for some extraordinary reason, looked
many years younger than when he had left her, and that she had
exchanged her customary dull, old-fashioned garb for a beautiful and
becoming dress. He gave an involuntary start, and immediately she
perceived him.
She stretched out her arms to him with a cry that rang through the
rafters of the hall. The roses were scattered.
"My boy! O God, my darling boy!"
In the space of a flash--a second--Lady Mary had seen and understood.
Her arms were round him, and her face hidden upon his empty sleeve.
She was as still as death. Peter stooped his head and laid his cheek
against her hair; he felt for one fleeting moment that he had never
known before how much he loved his mother.
"Forgive me for keeping it dark, mother," he whispered presently; "but
I knew you'd think I was dying, or something, if I told you. It had to
be done, and I don't care--much--now; one gets used to anything. My
aunts nearly had a fit when I came in; but I knew _you'd_ be too
thankful to get me home safe and sound, to make a fuss over what can't
be helped. It's--it's just the fortune of war."
"Oh, if I could meet the man who did it!" she cried, with fire in her
blue eyes.
"It wasn't a man; it was a gun," said Peter. "Let's forget it. I
say--doesn't it feel rummy to be at home again?"
"But you have come back a man, Peter. Not a boy at all," said Lady
Mary, laughing through her tears. "Do let me look at you. You must be
six feet three, surely."
"Barely six feet one in my boots," said Peter, reprovingly.
"And you have a moustache--more or less."
"Of course I have a moustache," said Peter, gravely stroking it. He
mechanically replaced his eyeglass.
Lady Mary laughed till she cried.
"Do forgive me, darling. But oh, Peter, it seems so strange. My boy
grown into a tall gentleman with an eyeglass. Nothing has happened to
your eye?" she cried, in sudden anxiety.
"No, no; I am just a little short-sighted, that is all," he mumbled,
rather awkwardly.
He found it difficult to explain that he had travelled home with a
distinguished man who had captivated his youthful fancy, and caused
him to fall into a fit of hero-worship, and to imitate his idol as
closely as possible. Hence the eyeglass, and a few harmless mannerisms
which temporarily distinguished Peter, and astonished his previous
acquaintance.
But there was something else in Peter's manner, too, for the moment.
A new tenderness, which peeped through his old armour of sulky
indifference; the chill armour of his boyhood, which had grown
something too strait and narrow for him even now, and from which he
would doubtless presently emerge altogether--but not yet.
Though Lady Mary laughed, she was trembling and shaken with emotion.
Peter came to the sofa and knelt beside her there, and she took his
hand in both hers, and laid her face upon it, and they were very still
for a few moments.
"Mother dear," said Peter presently, without looking at her, "coming
home like this, and not finding my father here, makes me _realize_ for
the first time--though it's all so long ago--what's happened."
"My poor boy!"
"Poor mother! You must have been terribly lonely all this time I've
been away."
"I've longed for your return, my darling," said Lady Mary.
Her tone was embarrassed, but Peter did not notice that.
"You see--I went away a boy, but I've come back a man, as you said
just now," said Peter.
"You're still very young, my darling--not one-and-twenty," she said
fondly.
"I'm older than my age; and I've been through a lot; more than you'd
think, all this time I've been away. I dare say it hasn't seemed so
long to you, who've had no experiences to go through," he said simply.
She kissed him silently.
"Now just listen, mother dear," said Peter, firmly. "I made up my mind
to say something to you the very first minute I saw you, and it's got
to be said. I'm sorry I used to be such a beast to you--there."
"Oh, Peter!"
"I dare say," said Peter, "that it's all this rough time in South
Africa that's made me feel what a fool I used to make of myself, when
I was a discontented ass of a boy; that, or being ill, or something,
used to--make one think a bit. And that's why I made up my mind to
tell you. I know I used to disappoint you horribly, and be bored by
your devotion, and all that. But you'll see," said Peter, decidedly,
"that I mean to be different now; and you'll forgive me, won't you?"
"My darling, I forgave you long ago--if there was anything to
forgive," she cried,
"You know there was," said Peter; and he sounded like the boy Peter
again, now that she could not see his face. "Well, my soldiering's
done for." A faint note of regret sounded in his voice. "I had a good
bout, so I suppose I oughtn't to complain; but I had hoped--however,
it's all for the best. And there's no doubt," said Peter, "that my
duty lies here now. In a very few months I shall be my own master, and
I mean to keep everything going here exactly as it was in my father's
time. You shall devote yourself to me, and I'll devote myself to
Barracombe; and we'll just settle down into all the old ways. Only it
will be me instead of my father--that's all."
"You instead of your father--that's all," echoed Lady Mary. She felt
as though her mind had suddenly become a blank.
"I used to rebel against poor papa," said Peter, remorsefully. "But
now I look back, I know he was just the kind of man I should like to
be."
She kissed his hand in silence. Her face was hidden.
"I want you--and my aunts, to feel that, though I am young and
inexperienced, and all that," said Peter, tenderly, "there are to be
no changes."
"But, Peter," said his mother, rather tremulously, "there are--sure
to be--changes. You will want to marry, sooner or later. In your
position, you are almost bound to marry."
"Oh, of course," said Peter. He released his hand gently, in order to
stroke the cherished moustache. "But I shall put off the evil day as
long as possible, like my father did."
"I see," said Lady Mary. She smiled faintly.
"And when it _does_ arrive," said Peter, "my wife will just have to
understand that she comes second. I've no notion of being led by the
nose by any woman, particularly a young woman. I'm sure my father
never dreamt of putting his sisters on one side, or turning them out
of their place, when he married _you_, did he?"
"Never," said Lady Mary.
"Of course they were snappish at times. I suppose all old people
get like that. But, on the whole, you managed to jog along pretty
comfortably, didn't you?"
"Oh yes," said Lady Mary. "We jogged along pretty comfortably."
"Then don't you see how snug we shall be?" said Peter, triumphantly.
"I can tell you a fellow learns to appreciate home when he has been
without one, so to speak, for over two years. And home wouldn't be
home without you, mother dear."
Lady Mary sank suddenly back among the cushions. Her feelings were
divided between dismay and self-reproach. Yet she was faintly amused
too--amused at Peter and herself. Her boy had returned to her with
sentiments that were surely all that a mother could desire; and
yet--yet she felt instinctively that Peter was Peter still; that
his thoughts were not her thoughts, nor his ways her ways. Then the
self-reproach began to predominate in Lady Mary's mind. How could she
criticize her boy, her darling, who had proved himself a son to be
proud of, and who had come back to her with a heart so full of love
and loyalty?
"And _you_ couldn't live without _me_, could you?" said Peter,
affectionately; and he laughed. "I suppose you meant to go into that
little, damp, tumble-down Dower House, and watch over me from there;
now didn't you, mummy?"
"I--I thought, when you came of age," faltered Lady Mary, "that I
should give up Barracombe House to you, naturally. I could come and
stay with you sometimes--whether you were married or not, you know.
And--and, of course, the Dower House _does_ belong to me."
"I won't hear of your going there," said Peter, stoutly, "whether I'm
married or not. It's a beastly place."
"It's very picturesque," said Lady Mary, guiltily; "and I--I wasn't
thinking of living there all the year round."
"Why, where on earth else could you have gone?" he demanded, regarding
her with astonishment through the eyeglass.
"There are several places--London," she faltered.
"London!" said Peter; "but my father had a perfect horror of London.
He wouldn't have liked it at all."
"He belonged--to the old school," said Lady Mary, meekly; "to
younger people, perhaps--an occasional change might be pleasant and
profitable."
"Oh! to _younger_ people," said Peter, in mollified tones. "I don't
say I shall _never_ run up to London. I dare say I shall be obliged,
now and then, on business. Not often though. I hate absentee
landlords, as my father did."
"Travelling is said to open the mind," murmured Lady Mary, weakly
pursuing her argument, as she supposed it to be.
"I've seen enough of the world now to last me a lifetime," said Peter,
in sublime unconsciousness that any fate but his own could be in
question.
"I didn't think you would have changed so much as this, Peter," she
said, rather dismally. "You used to find this place so dull."
"I know I used," Peter agreed; "but oh, mother, if you knew how sick
I've been now and then with longing to get back to it! I made up my
mind a thousand times how it should all be when I came home again; and
that you and me would be everything in the world to each other, as you
used to wish when I was a selfish boy, thinking only of getting
away and being independent. I'm afraid I used to be rather selfish,
mother?"
"Perhaps you were--a little," said Lady Mary.
"You will never have to complain of _that_ again," said Peter.
She looked at him with a faint, pathetic smile.
"I shall take care of you, and look after you, just as my father used
to do," said Peter. "Now you rest quietly here"--and he gently laid
her down among the cushions on the sofa--"whilst I take a look round
the old place."
"Let me come with you, darling."
"Good heavens, no! I should tire you to death. My father never liked
you to go climbing about."
"I am much more active than I used to be," said Lady Mary.
"No, no; you must lie down, you look quite pale." Peter's voice took
an authoritative note, which came very naturally to him. "The sudden
joy of my return has been too much for you, poor old mum."
He leant over her fondly, and kissed the sweet, pale face, and then
regarded her in a curious, doubtful manner.
"You're changed, mother. I can't think what it is. Isn't your hair
done differently--or something?"
Poor Lady Mary lifted both hands to her head, and looked at him with
something like alarm in her blue eyes.
"Is it? Perhaps it is," she faltered. "Don't you like it, Peter?"
"I like the old way best," said Peter.
"But this is so much more becoming, Peter."
"A fellow doesn't care," said Peter, loftily, "whether his mother's
hair is becoming or not. He likes to see her always the same as when
he was a little chap."
"It is--sweet of you, to have such a thought," murmured Lady Mary. She
took her courage in both hands. "But the other way is out of fashion,
Peter."
"Why, mother, you never used to follow the fashions before I went
away; you won't begin now, at your age, will you?"
"_At my age_" repeated Lady Mary, blankly. Then she looked at him with
that wondering, pathetic smile, which seemed to have replaced already,
since Peter came home, the joyousness which had timidly stolen back
from her vanished youth. "At my age!" said Lady Mary; "you are not
very complimentary, Peter."
"You don't expect a fellow to pay compliments to his mother," said
Peter, staring at her. "Why, mother, what has come to you? And
besides--"
"Besides?"
"I'm sure papa hated compliments, and all that sort of rot," Peter
blurted out, in boyish fashion. "Don't you remember how fond he was of
quoting, 'Praise to the face is open disgrace'?"
The late Sir Timothy, like many middle-class people, had taken a
compliment almost as a personal offence; and regarded the utterer,
however gracious or sincere, with suspicion. Neither had the squire
himself erred on the side of flattering his fellow-creatures.
"Oh yes, I remember," said Lady Mary; and she rose from the sofa.
"Why, what's the matter?" asked Peter. "I haven't vexed you, have I?"
She turned impetuously and threw her arms round him as he stood by the
hearth, gazing down upon her in bewilderment.
"Vexed with my boy, my darling, my only son, on the very day when God
has given him back to me?" she cried passionately. "My poor wounded
boy, my hero! Oh no, no! But I want only love from you to-day, and no
reproaches, Peter."
"Why, I wasn't dreaming of reproaching you, mother." He hesitated.
"Only you're a bit different from what I expected--that's all."
"Have I disappointed you?"
"No, no! Only I--well, I thought I might find you changed, but in a
different way," he said, half apologetically. "Perhaps older, you
know, or--or sadder."
Lady Mary's white face flushed scarlet from brow to chin; but Peter,
occupied with his monocle, observed nothing.
"I'd prepared myself for that," he said, "and to find you all in
black. And--"
"I threw off my mourning," she murmured, "the very day I heard you
were coming home." She paused, and added hurriedly, "It was very
thoughtless. I'm sorry; I ought to have thought of your feelings, my
darling."
"Aunt Isabella has never changed hers, has she?" said Peter.
"Aunt Isabella is a good deal more conventional than I am; and a great
many years older," said Lady Mary, tremulously.
"I don't see what that has to do with it," said Peter.
She turned away, and began to gather up her scattered roses. A few
moments since the roses had been less than nothing to her. What were
roses, what was anything, compared to Peter? Now they crept back into
their own little place in creation; their beauty and fragrance dumbly
conveyed a subtle comfort to her soul, as she lovingly laid one
against another, until a glowing bouquet of coppery golden hue was
formed. She lifted an ewer from the old dresser, and poured water into
a great silver goblet, wherein she plunged the stalks of her roses.
Why should they be left to fade because Peter had come home?
"You remember these?" she said, "from the great climber round my
bedroom window? I leant out and cut them--little thinking--"
Peter signified a gloomy assent. He stood before the chimneypiece
watching his mother, but not offering to help her; rather as though
undecided as to what his next words ought to be.
"Peter, darling, it's so funny to see you standing there, so tall, and
so changed--" But though it was so funny the tears were dropping from
her blue eyes, which filled and overflowed like a child's, without
painful effort or grimaces. "You--you remind me so of your father,"
she said, almost involuntarily.
"I'm glad I'm like him," said Peter.
She sighed. "How I used to wish you were a little tiny bit like me
too!"
"But I'm not, am I?"
"No, you're not. Not one tiny bit," she answered wistfully. "But you
do love me, Peter?"
"Haven't I proved I love you?" said Peter; and she perceived that
his feelings were hurt. "Coming back, and--and thinking only of you,
and--and of never leaving you any more. Why, mother"--for in an agony
of love and remorse she was clinging to him and sobbing, with her face
pressed against his empty sleeve--"why, mother," Peter repeated, in
softened tones, "of course I love you."
The drawing-room door was cautiously opened, and Peter's aunts came
into the hall on tiptoe, followed by the canon.
"Ah, I thought so," said Lady Belstone, in the self-congratulatory
tones of the successful prophet, "it has been too much for poor Mary.
She has been overcome by the joy of dear Peter's return."