"Try my salts, dear Mary," said Miss Crewys, hastening to apply the
remedies which were always to be found in her black velvet reticule.
"I blame myself," said the canon, distressfully--"I blame myself. I
should have insisted on breaking the news to her gently."
Lady Mary smiled upon them all. "On the contrary," she said, "I was
offering, not a moment ago, to take Peter round and show him the
improvements. We have been so much occupied with each other that he
has not had time to look round him."
"I wish he may think them improvements, my love," said Lady Belstone.
Miss Crewys, joyously scenting battle, hastened to join forces with
her sister.
"We are far from criticizing any changes your dear mother may have
been induced to make," she said; "but as your Aunt Isabella has
frequently observed to me, what _can_ a Londoner know of landscape
gardening?"
"A Londoner?" said Peter.
"Your guardian, my boy," said the canon, nervously. "He has slightly
opened out the views; that is all your good aunt is intending to say."
Peter's good aunt opened her mouth to contradict this assertion
indignantly, but Lady Mary broke in with some impatience.
"I do not mean the trees. Of course the house was shut in far too
closely by the trees at the back and sides. We wanted more air, more
light, more freedom." She drew a long breath and flung out her hands
in unconscious illustration. "But there are many very necessary
changes that--that Peter will like to see," said Lady Mary, glancing
almost defiantly at the pursed-up mouths and lowered eyelids of the
sisters.
Peter walked suddenly into the middle of the banqueting-hall and
looked round him.
"Why, what's come to the old place? It's--it's changed somehow. What
have you been doing to it?" he demanded.
"Don't you--don't you like it, Peter?" faltered Lady Mary. "The roof
was not safe, you know, and had to be mended, and--and when it was
all done up, the furniture and curtains looked so dirty and ugly and
inappropriate. I sent them away and brought down some of the beautiful
old things that belonged to your great-grandmother, and made the hall
brighter and more livable."
Peter examined the new aspect of his domain with lowering brow.
"I don't like it at all," he announced, finally. "I hate changes."
The sisters breathed again. "So like his father!"
Their allegiance to Sir Timothy had been transferred to his heir.
"Your guardian approved," said Lady Mary.
She turned proudly away, but she could not keep the pain altogether
out of her voice. Neither would she stoop to solicit Peter's approval
before her rejoicing opponents.
"Mr. John Crewys is a very great connoisseur," said the canon. He
taxed his memory for corroborative evidence, and brought out the
result with honest pride. "I believe, curiously enough, that he spends
most of his spare time at the British Museum."
Lady Mary's lip quivered with laughter in the midst of her very real
distress and mortification.
But the argument appeared to the canon a most suitable one, and he was
further encouraged by Peter's reception of it.
"If my guardian approves, I suppose it's all right," said the young
man, with an effort. "My father left all that sort of thing in his
hands, I understand, and he knew what he was doing. I say, where's
that great vase of wax flowers that used to stand on the centre table
under a glass shade?"
"Darling," said Lady Mary, "it jarred so with the whole scheme of
decoration."
"I am taking care of that in my room, Peter," said Miss Crewys.
"And the stuffed birds, and the weasels, and the ferrets that I was so
fond of when I was a little chap. You don't mean to say you've done
away with those too?" cried Peter, wrathfully.
"They--they are in the gun-room," said Lady Mary. "It seemed such
a--such--an appropriate place for them."
"I believe," said the canon, nervously, "that stuffing is no longer
considered decorative. After all, _why_ should we place dead animals
in our sitting-rooms?"
He looked round with the anxious smile of the would-be peacemaker.
"They were very much worm-eaten, Peter," said Lady Mary. "But if you
would like them brought back--"
Perhaps the pain in her voice penetrated even Peter's perception, for
he glanced hastily towards her.
"It doesn't matter," he said magnanimously. "If you and my guardian
decided they were rotten, there's an end of it. Of course I'd rather
have things as they used to be; but after all this time, I expect
there's bound to be a few changes." He turned from the contemplation
of the hall to face his relatives squarely, with the air of an
autocrat who had decreed that the subject was at an end.
"By-the-by," said Peter, "where _is_ John Crewys? They told me he was
stopping here."
"He will be in directly," said Lady Mary, "and Sarah Hewel ought to be
here presently too. She is coming to luncheon."
"Sarah!" said Peter. "I should like to see her again. Is she still
such a rum little toad? Always getting into scrapes, and coming to you
for comfort?"
"I think," said Lady Mary, and her blue eyes twinkled--"I think you
may be surprised to see little Sarah. She is grown up now."
"Of course," said Peter. "She's only a year younger than I am."
Lady Mary wondered why Peter's way of saying _of course_ jarred upon
her so much. He had always been brusque and abrupt; it was the family
fashion. Was it because she had grown accustomed to the tactful and
gentle methods of John Crewys that it seemed to have become suddenly
such an intolerable fashion? Sir Timothy had quite honestly believed
tactfulness to be a form of insincerity. He did not recognize it as
the highest outward expression of self-control. But Lady Mary, since
she had known John Crewys, knew also that it is consideration for
the feelings of others which causes the wise man to order his speech
carefully.
The canon shook his head when Peter stated that Miss Hewel was his
junior by a twelvemonth.
"She might be ten years older," he said, in awe-struck tones. "I have
always heard that women were extraordinarily adaptable, but I never
realized it before. However, to be sure, she has seen a good deal more
of the world than you have. More than most of us, though in such a
comparatively short space of time. But she is one in a thousand for
quickness."
"Seen more of the world than I have?" said Peter, astonished. "Why,
I've been soldiering in South Africa for over two years."
"I don't think soldiering brings much worldly wisdom in its train. I
should be rather sorry to think it did," said Lady Mary, gently. "But
Sarah has been with Lady Tintern all this while."
"A very worldly woman, indeed, from all I have heard," said Miss
Crewys, severely.
"But a very great lady," said Lady Mary, "who knows all the famous
people, not only in England, but in Europe. The daughter of a viceroy,
and the wife of a man who was not only a peer, and a great landowner,
but also a distinguished ambassador. And she has taken Sarah
everywhere, and the child is an acknowledged beauty in London and
Paris. Lady Tintern is delighted with her, and declares she has taken
the world by storm."
"We never thought her a beauty down here," said Peter, rather
contemptuously.
"Perhaps we did not appreciate her sufficiently down here," said Lady
Mary, smiling.
"Why, who is she, after all?" cried Peter.
"A very beautiful and self-possessed young woman, and Lady Tintern's
niece, 'whom not to know argues yourself unknown,'" said Lady Mary,
laughing outright. "John says people were actually mobbing her picture
in the Academy; he could not get near it."
"I mean," said Peter, almost sulkily, "that she's only old Colonel
Hewel's daughter, whom we've known all our lives."
"Perhaps one is in danger of undervaluing people one has known all
one's life," said Lady Mary, lightly.
Peter muttered something to the effect that he was sorry to hear Sarah
had grown up like that; but his words were lost in the tumultuous
entry of Dr. Blundell, who pealed the front door bell, and rushed into
the hall, almost simultaneously.
His dark face was flushed and enthusiastic. He came straight to Peter,
and held out his hand.
"A thousand welcomes, Sir Peter. Lady Mary, I congratulate you. I came
up in my dog-cart as fast as possible, to let you know the people
are turning out _en masse_ to welcome you. They're assembling at
the Crewys Arms, and going to hurry up to the house in a regular
procession, band and all."
"We're proud of our young hero, you see," said the canon; and he laid
his hand affectionately on Peter's shoulder.
"You will have to say a few words to them," said Lady Mary.
"Must I?" said the hero. "Let's go out on the terrace and see what's
going on. We can watch them the whole way up."
He opened the door into the south drawing-rooms; and through the open
windows there floated the distant strains of the village band.
"Canon, your arm," said Lady Belstone.
Lady Mary and her son had hastened out on to the terrace.
The old ladies paused in the doorway; they were particular in such
matters.
"I believe I take precedence, Georgina," said Lady Belstone,
apologetically.
"I am far from disputing it, Isabella," said Miss Crewys, drawing back
with great dignity. "You are the elder."
"Age does not count in these matters. I take precedence, as a married
woman. Will you bring up the rear, Georgina, as my poor admiral would
have said?"
Miss Crewys bestowed a parting toss of the head upon the doctor, and
followed her victorious sister.
The doctor laughed silently to himself, standing in the pretty shady
drawing-room; now gay with flowers, and chintz, and Dresden china.
"I wonder if she would not have been even more annoyed with my
presumption if I _had_ offered her my arm," he said to himself,
amusedly, "than she is offended by my neglect to do so?"
He did not follow the others into the blinding sunshine of the
terrace. He had had a long morning's work, and was hot and tired. He
looked at his watch.
"Past one o'clock; h'm! we are lucky if we get anything to eat before
half-past two. All the servants have run out, of course. No use
ringing for whisky and seltzer. All the better. But, at least, one can
rest."
The pleasantness of the room refreshed his spirit. The interior of his
own house in Brawnton was not much more enticing than the exterior.
The doctor had no time to devote to such matters. He sat down very
willingly in a big armchair, and enjoyed a moment's quiet in the
shade; glancing through the half-closed green shutters at the
brilliant picture without.
The top level of the terrace garden was carpeted with pattern beds of
heliotrope, and lobelia, and variegated foliage. Against the faint
blue-green of the opposite hill rose the grey stone urns on the
pillars of the balcony; and from the urns hung trailing ivy geraniums
with pink or scarlet blossom, making splashes of colour on the
background of grey distance. Round the pillars wound large blue
clematis, and white passion-flowers.
Lady Mary stood full in the sunshine, which lent once more the golden
glory of her vanished youth to her brown hair, and the dazzle of
new-fallen snow to her summer gown.
Close to her side, touching her, stood the young soldier; straight and
tall, with uncovered head, towering above the little group.
The old sisters had parasols, and the canon wore his shovel hat; but
the doctor wasted no time in observing their manifestations of delight
and excitement.
"So my beautiful lady has got her precious boy back safe and sound,
save for his right arm, and doubly precious because that is missing.
God bless her a thousand times!" he thought to himself. "But her sweet
face looked more sorrowful than joyful when I came in. What had he
been saying, I wonder, to make her look like that, _already_?"
John Crewys entered from the hall. "What's this I hear," he said, in
glad tones--"the hero returned?"
"Ay," said the doctor. "Sir Timothy is forgotten, and Sir Peter reigns
in his stead."
"Where is Lady Mary?"
The doctor drew him to the window. "There," he said grimly. "Why don't
you go out and join her?"
"She has her son," said John, smiling.
He looked with interest at the group on the terrace; then he started
back with an exclamation of horror.
"Why, good heavens--"
"Yes," said the doctor quietly, "the poor fellow has lost his right
arm."
There was a sound of distant cheering, and the band could be heard
faintly playing the _Conquering Hero_.
"He said nothing of it," said John.
"No; he's a plucky chap, with all his faults."
"Has he so many faults?" said John.
The doctor shook his head. "I'm mistaken if he won't turn out a chip
of the old block. Though he's better-looking than his father, he's got
Sir Timothy's very expression."
"He's turned out a gallant soldier, anyway," said John, cheerily.
"Don't croak, Blundell; we'll make a man of him yet."
"Please God you may, for his mother's sake," said the doctor; and he
returned to his armchair.
John Crewys stood by the open French window, and drank in the
refreshing breeze which fluttered the muslin curtains. His calm and
thoughtful face was turned away from the doctor, who knew very well
why John's gaze was so intent upon the group without.
"Shall I warn him, or shall I let it alone?" thought Blundell. "I
suppose they have been waiting only for this. If that selfish cub
objects, as he will--I feel very sure of that--will she be weak enough
to sacrifice her happiness, or can I trust John Crewys? He looks
strong enough to take care of himself, and of her."
He looked at John's decided profile, silhouetted against the curtain,
and thought of Peter's narrow face. "Weak but obstinate," he muttered
to himself. "Shrewd, suspicious eyes, but a receding chin. What chance
would the boy have against a man? A man with strength to oppose him,
and brains to outwit him. None, save for the one undoubted fact--the
boy holds his mother's heart in the hollow of his careless hands."
There was a tremendous burst of cheering, no longer distant, and the
band played louder.
Lady Mary came hurrying across the terrace. Weeping and agitated, and
half blinded by her tears, she stumbled over the threshold of the
window, and almost fell into John's arms. He drew her into the shadow
of the curtain.
"John," she cried; she saw no one else. "Oh, I can't bear it! Oh,
Peter, Peter, my boy, my poor boy!"
The doctor, with a swift and noiseless movement, turned the handle of
the window next him, and let himself out on to the terrace.
When John looked up he was already gone. Lady Mary did not hear the
slight sound.
"Oh, John," she said, "my boy's come home--but--but--"
"I know," John said, very tenderly.
"I was afraid of breaking down before them all," she whispered. "Peter
was afraid I should break down, and I felt my weakness, and came
away."
"To me," said John.
His heart beat strongly. He drew her more closely into his arms,
deeply conscious that he held thus, for the first time, all he loved
best in the world.
"To you," said poor Lady Mary, very simply; as though aware only
of the rest and support that refuge offered, and not of all of its
strangeness. "Alas! it has grown so natural to come to _you_ now."
"It will grow more natural every day," said John.
She shook her head. "There is Peter now," she said faintly. Then,
looking into his face, she realized that John was not thinking of
Peter.
For a moment's space Lady Mary, too, forgot Peter. She leant against
the broad shoulder of the man who loved her; and felt as though all
trouble, and disappointment, and doubt had slidden off her soul, and
left her only the blissful certainty of happy rest.
Then she laid her hand very gently and entreatingly on his arm.
"I will not let you go," said John. "You came to me--at last--of your
own accord, Mary."
She coloured deeply and leant away from his arm, looking up at him in
distress.
"I could not help it, John," she said, very simply and naturally. "But
oh, I don't know if I can--if I ought--to come to you any more."
"What do you mean?" said John.
"I--we--have been thinking of Peter as a boy--as the boy he was when
he went away," she said, in low, hurrying tones; "but he has come home
a man, and, in some ways, altogether different. He never used to
want me; he used to think this place dull, and long to get away from
it--and from me, for that matter. But now he's--he's wounded, as you
know; maimed, my poor boy, for life; and--and he's counting on me to
make his home for him. We never thought of that. He says it wouldn't
be home without me; and he asked my pardon for being selfish in the
past; my poor Peter! I used to fear he had such a little, cold heart;
but I was all wrong, for when he was so far away he thought of me,
and was sorry he hadn't loved me more. He's come home wanting to be
everything to me, as I am to be everything to him. And I should have
been so glad, so thankful, only two years ago. Oh, have I changed so
much in two little years?"
John put her out of his arms very gently, and walked towards the
window. His face was pale, but he still smiled, and his hazel eyes
were bright.
"You're angry, John," said Lady Mary, very sweetly and humbly. "You've
a right to be angry."
"I am not angry," he said gently. "I may be--a little--disappointed."
He did not look round.
"You know I was too happy," said poor Lady Mary. She sank into a
chair, and covered her face with her hands. "It was wicked of me to be
so happy, and now I'm going to be punished for it."
John's great heart melted within him. He came swiftly back to her and
knelt by her side, and kissed the little hand she gave him.
"Too happy, were you?" he said, with a tenderness that rendered his
deep voice unsteady. "Because you promised to marry me when Peter came
home?"
"That, and--and everything else," she whispered. "Life seemed to have
widened out, and grown so beautiful. All the dull, empty hours were
filled. Our music, our reading, our companionship, our long walks and
talks, our letters to each other--all those pleasures which you showed
me were at once so harmless and so delightful. And as if that were
not enough--came love. Such love as I had only dreamed of--such
understanding of each other's every thought and word, as I did not
know was possible between man and woman--or at least"--she corrected
herself sadly--"between any man and a woman--of my age."
"You talk of your age," said John, smiling tenderly, "as though it
were a crime."
"It is not a crime, but it is a tragedy," said Lady Mary. "Age is a
tragedy to every woman who wants to be happy."
"No more, surely, than to every man who loves his work, and sees it
slipping from his grasp," said John, slowly. "It's a tragedy we all
have to face, for that matter."
"But so much later," said Lady Mary, quickly.
"I don't see why women should leave off wanting to be happy any sooner
than men," he said stoutly.
"But Nature does," she answered.
John's eyes twinkled. "For my part, I am thankful to fate, which
caused me to fall in love with a woman only ten years my junior,
instead of with a girl young enough to be my daughter. I have gained a
companion as well as a wife; and marvellously adaptive as young women
are, I am conceited enough to think my ideas have travelled beyond
the ideas of most girls of eighteen; and I am not conceited enough to
suppose the girl of eighteen would not find me an old fogey very much
in the way. Let boys mate with girls, say I, and men with women."
Lady Mary smiled in spite of herself. "You know, John, you would
argue entirely the other way round if you happened to be in love
with--Sarah," she said.
"To be sure," said John; "it's my trade to argue for the side which
retains my services. I am your servant, thank Heaven, and not Sarah's.
And I have no intention of quitting your service," he added, more
gravely. "We have settled the question of the future."
"The empty future that suddenly grew so bright," said Lady Mary,
dreamily. "Do you remember how you talked of--Italy?"
"Where we shall yet spend our honeymoon," said John. "But I believe
you liked better to hear of my shabby rooms in London which you meant
to share."
"Of course," she said simply. "I knew I should bring you so little
money."
"And you thought barristers always lived from hand to mouth, and made
no allowance for my having got on in my profession."
"Ah! what did it matter?"
"I think you will find it makes just a little difference," John said,
smiling.
"Outside circumstances make less difference to women than men
suppose," said Lady Mary. "They are, oh, so willing to be pampered
in luxury; and, oh, so willing to fly to the other extreme, and do
without things."
"Are they really?" said John, rather dryly.
He glanced at the little, soft, white hand he held, and smiled. It
looked so unfitted to help itself.
Lady Mary was resting in her armchair, her delicate face still flushed
with emotion. A transparent purple shade beneath the blue eyes
betrayed that she had been weeping; but she was calmed by John's
strong and tranquil presence. The shady room was cool and fragrant
with the scent of heliotrope and mignonette.
The band had reached a level plateau below the terrace garden, and was
playing martial airs to encourage stragglers in the procession, and to
give the principal inhabitants of Youlestone time to arrive, and to
regain their wind after the steep ascent.
Every time a batch of new arrivals recognized Peter's tall form on the
terrace, a fresh burst of cheering rose.
From all sides of the valley, hurrying figures could be seen
approaching Barracombe House.
The noise and confusion without seemed to increase the sense of quiet
within, and the sounds of the gathering crowd made them feel apart and
alone together as they had never felt before.
"So all our dreams are to be shattered," said John, quietly, "because
your prayer has been granted, and Peter has come home?"
"If you could have heard all he said," she whispered sadly. "He has
come home loving me, trusting me, dependent on me, as he has never
been before, since his babyhood. Don't you see--that even if it breaks
my heart, I couldn't fail my boy--just now?"
There was a pause, and she regarded him anxiously; her hands were
clasped tightly together in the effort to still their trembling, her
blue eyes looked imploring.
John knew very well that it lay within his powers to make good his
claim upon that gentle heart, and enforce his will and her submission
to it. But the strongest natures are those which least incline to
tyranny; and he had already seen the results of coercion upon that
bright and joyous, but timid nature. He knew that her love for him was
of the fanciful, romantic, high-flown order; and as such, it appealed
to every chivalrous instinct within him. Though his love for her was,
perhaps, of a different kind, he desired her happiness and her peace
of mind, as strongly as he desired her companionship and the sympathy
which was to brighten his lonely life. He was silent for a moment,
considering how he should act. If love counselled haste, common sense
suggested patience.
"I couldn't disappoint him now. You see that, John?" said the anxious,
gentle voice.
"I am afraid I do see it, Mary," he said. "Our secret must remain our
secret for the present."
"God bless you, John!" said Lady Mary, softly. "You always
understand."
"I am old enough, at least, to know that happiness cannot be attained
by setting duty aside," he said, as cheerfully as he could.
There was a pause in the music outside, and a voice was heard
speaking.
John rose and straightened himself.
"Have you decided what is to be done--what we had best do?" she said
timidly.
"I am going to prove that a lover can be devoted, and yet perfectly
reasonable; in defiance of all tradition to the contrary," he
said gaily. "I shall return to town as soon as I can decently get
away--probably to-morrow."
She uttered a cry. "You are going to leave me?"
"I must give place to Peter."
She came to his side, and clung to his arm as though terrified by the
success of her own appeal.
"But you'll come back?"
"I have to account for my stewardship when Peter comes of age in the
autumn," he said, smiling down upon her.
She was too quick of perception not to know that strength, and
courage, too, were needed for the smile wherewith John strove to hide
a disappointment too deep for words. He answered the look she
gave him; a look which implored forgiveness, understanding, even
encouragement.
"I'm not yielding a single inch of my claim upon you when the time
comes, my darling; only I think, with you, that the time has not come
yet. I think Peter may reasonably expect to be considered first
for the present; and that you should be free to devote your whole
attention to him, especially as he has such praiseworthy intentions.
We will postpone the whole question until the autumn, when he comes of
age; and when I shall, consequently, be able to tackle him frankly,
man to man, and not as one having authority and abusing that same," he
laughed. "Meantime, we must be patient. Write often, but not so often
as to excite remark; and I shall return in the autumn."
"To stay?"
"Ah!" said John, "that depends on you."
He had not meant to be satirical, but the slight inflection of his
tone cut Lady Mary to the heart.
Her vivid imagination saw her conduct in its worst light: vacillating,
feeble, deserting the man she loved at the moment she had led him to
expect triumph; dismissing her faithful servant without his reward.
Then, in a flash, came the other side of the picture--the mother of
a grown-up son--a wounded soldier dependent on her love--seeking
her personal happiness as though there existed no past memories, no
present duties, to hinder the fulfilling of her own belated romance.
"Oh, John," said Lady Mary, "tell me what to do? No, no; don't tell
me--or I shall do it--and I mustn't."
"My darling," he said, "I only tell you to wait." He rallied himself
to speak cheerfully, and to bring the life and colour back to her sad,
white face.
"Just at this moment I quite realize I should be a disturbing element,
and I am going to get myself out of the way as quickly as politeness
permits. And you are to devote yourself to Peter, and not to be torn
with self-reproach. If we act sensibly, and don't precipitate matters,
nobody need have a grievance, and Peter and I will be the best of
friends in the future, I hope. There is little use in having grown-up
wits if we snatch our happiness at the expense of other people's
feelings, as young folk so often do."
The twinkle in his bright eyes, and the kindly humour of his smile,
restored her shaken self-confidence.
"Oh, John, no one else could ever understand--as you understand. If
only Peter--"
"Peter is a boy," said John, "dreaming as a boy dreams, resolving as
a boy resolves; and his dreams and his resolutions are as light as
thistledown: the first breath of a new fancy, or a fresh interest,
will blow them away. I put my faith in the future, in the near future.
Time works wonders."
He stooped and kissed her hands, one after the other, with a
possessive tenderness that told her better than words, that he had not
resigned his claims.
"Now I'll go and offer my congratulations to the hero of the day,"
said John. "I must not put off any longer; and it is quite settled
that our secret is to remain our secret--for the present."
Then he stepped out on to the terrace, and Lady Mary looked after him
with a little sigh and smile.
She lifted a hand-mirror from the silver table that stood at her
elbow, and shook her head over it.
"It's all very well for him, and it's all very well for Peter," she
said; "but Time--Time is _my_ worst enemy."