Sarah Hewel ran into the drawing-room before Lady Mary found courage
to put her newly gained composure to the test, by joining the crowd on
the terrace.
"Oh, Lady Mary, are you there?" she cried, pausing in her eager
passage to the window. "I thought you would be out-of-doors with the
others!"
"Sarah, my dear!" said Lady Mary, kissing her.
"I--I saw all the people," said Sarah, in a breathless, agitated
way, "I heard the news, and I wasn't sure whether I ought to come to
luncheon all the same or not; so I slipped in by the side door to
see whether I could find some one to ask quietly. Oh!" cried Sarah,
throwing her arms impetuously round Lady Mary's neck, "tell me it
isn't true?"
"My boy has come home," said Lady Mary.
Sarah turned from red to white, and from white to red again.
"But they said," she faltered--"they said he--"
"Yes, my dear," said Lady Mary, understanding; and the tears started
to her own eyes. "Peter has lost an arm, but otherwise--otherwise,"
she said, in trembling tones, "my boy is safe and sound."
Sarah turned away her face and cried.
Lady Mary was touched. "Why, Sarah!" she said; and she drew the girl
down beside her on the sofa and kissed her softly.
"I am sorry to be so silly," said Sarah, recovering herself. "It isn't
a bit like me, is it?"
"It is like you, I think, to have a warm heart," said Lady Mary,
"though you don't show it to every one; and, after all, you and Peter
are old friends--playmates all your lives."
"It's been like a lump of lead on my heart all these months and
years," said Sarah, "to think how I scoffed at Peter in the Christmas
holidays before he went to the war, because my brothers had gone,
whilst he stayed at home. Perhaps that was the reason he went. I used
to lie awake at night sometimes, thinking that if Peter were killed it
would be all my fault. And now his arm has gone--and Tom and Willie
came back safely long ago." She cried afresh.
"It may not have been that at all," said Lady Mary, consolingly. "I
don't think Peter was a boy to take much notice of what a goose of
a little girl said. He felt he was a man, and ought to go--and his
grandfather was a soldier--it is in the blood of the Setouns to want
to fight for their country," said Lady Mary, with a smile and a little
thrill of pride; for, after all, if her boy were a Crewys, he was also
a Setoun. "Besides, poor child, you were so young; you didn't think;
you didn't know--"
"You always make excuses for me," said Sarah, with subdued enthusiasm;
"but I understand better now what it means--to send an only son away
from his mother."
"The young take responsibility so lightly," said Lady Mary. "But now
he has come home, my darling, why, you needn't reproach yourself any
longer. It is good of you to care so much for my boy."
"It--it isn't only that. Of course, I was always fond of Peter," said
Sarah; "but even if I had nothing to do with his going"--her voice
sounded incredulous--"you know how one feels over our soldiers coming
home--and a boy who has given his right arm for England. It makes one
so choky and yet so proud--I can't say all I mean--but you know--"
"Yes, I know," said Lady Mary; and she smiled, but the tears were
rolling down her cheeks.
"And what it must be to _you_," sobbed Sarah, "the day you were to
have been so happy, to see him come back like _that_! No wonder you
are sad. One feels one could never do enough to--to make it up to
him."
"But I'm far more happy than sad," said Lady Mary; and to prove her
words she leant back upon the cushions and cried.
"You're not," said Sarah, kneeling by her; "how can you be, my
darling, sweet Lady Mary? But you _must_ be happy," she said; and her
odd, deep tones took a note of coaxing that was hard to resist. "Think
how proud every one will be of him, and how--how all the other mothers
will envy you! You--you mustn't care so terribly. It--it isn't as if
he had to work for his living. It won't make any real difference to
his life. And he'll let you do everything for him--even write his
letters--"
"Oh, Sarah, Sarah, stop!" said Lady Mary, faintly. "It--it isn't
that."
"Not that!" said Sarah, changing her tone. She pounced on the
admission like a cat on a mouse. "Then why do you cry?"
Lady Mary looked up confused into the severely inquiring young face.
Sarah's apple-blossom beauty, as was to have been expected, had
increased a thousand-fold since her school girl days. She had grown
tall to match the plumpness of her figure, which had not decreased.
Her magnificent hair showed its copper redness in every variety of
curl and twist upon her white forehead, and against her whiter throat.
She was no longer dressed in blue cotton. Lady Tintern knew how to
give such glorious colouring its true value. A gauzy, transparent
black flowed over a close-fitting white gown beneath, and veiled her
fair arms and neck. Black bébé ribbon gathered in coquettishly the
folds which shrouded Sarah's abundant charms, and a broad black sash
confined her round young waist. A black chip hat shaded the glowing
hair and the face, "ruddier than the cherry, and whiter than milk;"
and the merry, dark blue eyes had a penthouse of their own, of
drooping lashes, which redeemed the boldness of their frank and open
gaze.
"If it is not that--why do you cry?" she demanded imperiously.
"It's--just happiness," said Lady Mary.
Sarah looked wise, and shook her head. "Oh no," she quoth. "Those
aren't happy tears."
"You're too old, dear Sarah, to be an _enfant terrible_ still," said
Lady Mary; but Sarah was not so easily disarmed.
"I will know! Come, I'm your godchild, and you always spoil me. He's
not come back in one of his moods, has he?"
"Who?" cried Lady Mary, colouring.
"Who! Why, who are we talking of but Peter?" said Sarah, opening her
big-pupilled eyes.
"Oh no, no! He's changed entirely--"
"Changed!"
"I don't mean exactly changed, but he's--he's grown so loving and so
sweet--not that he wasn't always loving in his heart, but--
"Oh," cried Sarah, impatiently, "as if I didn't know Peter! But if
it wasn't _that_ which made you so unhappy, what was it?" She bent
puzzled brows upon her embarrassed hostess.
"Let me go, Sarah; you ask too much!" said Lady Mary. "Oh no, my
darling, I'm not angry! How could I be angry with my little loyal
Sarah, who's always loved me so? It's only that I can't bear to
be questioned just now." She caressed the girl eagerly, almost
apologetically. "I must have a few moments to recover myself. I'll go
quietly away into the study--anywhere. Wait for me here, darling, and
make some excuse for me if any one comes. I want to be alone for a few
moments. Peter mustn't find me crying again."
"Yes--that's all very well," said Sarah to herself, as the slight form
hurried from the drawing-room into the dark oak hall beyond. "But
_why_ is she unhappy? There is something else."
It was Dr. Blundell who found the answer to Sarah's riddle.
He had seen the signs of weeping on Lady Mary's face as she stumbled
over the threshold of the window into the very arms of John Crewys,
and his feelings were divided between passionate sympathy with his
divinity, and anger with the returned hero, who had no doubt reduced
his mother to this distressful state. The doctor was blinded by love
and misery, and ready to suspect the whole world of doing injustice to
this lady; though he believed himself to be destitute of jealousy, and
capable of judging Peter with perfect impartiality.
His fancy leapt far ahead of fact; and he supposed, not only that Lady
Mary must be engaged to John Crewys, but that she must have confided
her engagement to her son, and that Peter had already forbidden the
banns.
He wandered miserably about the grounds, within hearing of the
rejoicings; and had just made up his mind that he ought to go and join
the speechmakers, when he perceived John Crewys himself standing next
to Peter, apparently on the best possible terms with the hero of the
day.
The doctor hastened round to the hall, intending to enter the
drawing-room unobserved, and find out for himself whether Lady Mary
had recovered, or whether John Crewys had heartlessly abandoned her to
her grief.
The brilliant vision Miss Sarah presented, as she stood, drawn up to
her full height, in the shaded drawing-room, met his anxious gaze as
he entered.
"Why, Miss Sarah! Not gone back to London yet? I thought you only came
down for Whitsuntide."
"Mamma wasn't well, so I am staying on for a few days. I am supposed
to be nursing her," said Sarah, demurely.
She was a favourite with the doctor, as she was very well aware, and,
in consequence, was always exceedingly gracious to him.
"Where is Lady Mary?" he asked.
She stole to his side, and put her finger on her lips, and lowered her
voice.
"She went through the hall--into the study. And she's alone--crying."
"Crying!" said the doctor; and he made a step towards the open door,
but Sarah's strong, white hand held him fast.
"Play fair," she said reproachfully; "I told you in confidence. You
can't suppose she wants _you_ to see her crying."
"No, no," said the poor doctor, "of course not--of course not."
She closed the doors between the rooms. "Look here, Dr. Blundell,
we've always been friends, haven't we, you and me?"
"Ever since I had the honour of ushering you into the world you now
adorn," said the doctor, with an ironical bow.
"Then tell me the truth," said Sarah. "Why is she unhappy, to-day of
all days?"
The doctor looked uneasily away from her. "Perhaps--the joy of Peter's
return has been too much for her," he suggested.
"Yes," said Sarah. "That's what we'll tell the other people. But you
and I--why, Dr. Blunderbuss," she said reproachfully, using the
name she had given him in her saucy childhood, "you know how I've
worshipped Lady Mary ever since I was a little girl?"
"Yes, yes, my dear, I know," said the doctor.
"You love her too, don't you?" said Sarah.
He started. "I--I love Lady Mary! What do you mean?" he said, almost
violently.
"Oh, I didn't mean _that_ sort of love," said Sarah, watching him
keenly. Then she laid her plump hand gently on his shabby sleeve. "I
wouldn't have said it, if I'd thought--"
"Thought what?" said the doctor, agitated.
"What I think now," said Sarah.
He walked up and down in a silence she was too wise to break. When
he looked at her again, Sarah was leaning against the piano. She had
taken off the picture-hat, and was swinging it absently to and fro by
the black ribbons which had but now been tied beneath her round, white
chin. She presented a charming picture--and it is possible she knew
it--as she stood in that restful pose, with her long lashes pointed
downwards towards her buckled shoes.
The doctor stopped in front of her. "You are too quick for me, Sarah.
You always were, even as a little girl," he said. "You've surprised
my--my poor secret. You can laugh at the old doctor now, if you like."
"I don't feel like laughing," said Sarah, simply. "And your secret is
safe with me. I'm honest; you know that."
"Yes, my dear; I know that. God bless you!" said the doctor.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Blundell," said Sarah, softly.
The deep voice which came from the full, white chest, and which had
once been so unmanageable, was one of Sarah's surest weapons now.
When she sang, she counted her victims by the dozen; when she lowered
it, as she lowered it now, to speak only to one man, every note went
straight to his heart--if he had an ear for music and a heart for
love.
When Sarah said, in these dulcet tones, therefore, that she was sorry
for her old friend, the tears gathered to the doctor's kind, tired
eyes.
"For me!" he said gratefully. "Oh, you mustn't be sorry for me.
She--she could hardly be further out of _my_ reach, you know, if she
were--an angel in heaven, instead of being what she is--an angel on
earth. It is--of _her_ that I was thinking."
"I know," said Sarah; "but she has been looking so bright and hopeful,
ever since we heard Peter was coming home--until to-day--when he has
actually come; and that is what puzzles me."
"To-day--to-day!" said the doctor, as though to himself. "Yes; it was
to-day I saw her touch happiness timidly, and come face to face with
disappointment."
"You saw her?"
"Oh, when one loves," he said bitterly, "one has intuitions which
serve as well as eyes and ears. You will know all about it one day,
little Sarah."
"Shall I?" said Sarah. She turned her face away from the doctor.
"You've not been here very much lately," he said, "but you've been
here long enough to guess her secret, as you--you've guessed mine. Eh?
You needn't pretend, for my sake, to misunderstand me."
"I wasn't going to," said Sarah, gently.
"John Crewys is the very man I would have chosen--I did choose him,"
said the doctor, looking at her almost fiercely. It was an odd
consolation to him to believe he had first led John Crewys to
interest himself in Lady Mary. He recognized his rival's superior
qualifications very fully and humbly. "You know all about it, Miss
Sarah, don't tell me; so quick as you are to find out what doesn't
concern you."
"I saw that--Mr. John Crewys--liked _her_," said Sarah, in a low
voice; "but, then, so does everybody. I wasn't sure--I couldn't
believe that _she_--"
"You haven't watched as I have," he groaned; "you haven't seen the
sparkle come back to her eye, and the colour to her cheek. You haven't
watched her learning to laugh and sing and enjoy her innocent days
as Nature bade; since she has dared to be herself. It was love that
taught her an that."
"Love!" said Sarah.
Her soft, red lips parted; and her breath quickened with a sudden
sensation of mingled interest, sympathy, and amusement.
"Ay, love," said the doctor, half angrily. He detected the deepening
of Sarah's dimples. "And I am an old fool to talk to you like this.
You children think that love is reserved for boys and girls, like you
and--and Peter."
"I don't know what Peter has to do with it," said Sarah, pouting.
"I heard Peter explaining to his tenants just now," said the doctor,
with a harsh laugh, "that he was going to settle down here for good
and all--with his mother; that nothing was to be changed from his
father's time. Something in his words would have made me
understand the look on his mother's face, even if I hadn't read it
right--already. She will sacrifice her love for John Crewys to her
love for her son; and by the time Peter finds out--as in the course of
nature he will find out--that he can do without his mother, her chance
of happiness will be gone for ever."
Sarah looked a little queerly at the doctor.
"Then the sooner Peter finds out," she said slowly, "that he can live
without his mother, the better. Doesn't that seem strange?"
"Perhaps," said the doctor, heavily. "But life gives us so few
opportunities of a great happiness as we grow older, little Sarah. The
possibilities that once seemed so boundless, lie in a circle which
narrows round us, day by day. Some day you'll find that out too."
There was a sudden outburst of cheering.
Sarah started forward. "Dr. Blundell," she said energetically, "you've
told me all I wanted to know. She sha'n't be unhappy if _I_ can help
it."
"You!" said the doctor, shrugging his shoulders rather rudely. "I
don't see what _you_ can do."
Sarah reddened with lofty indignation. "It would be very odd if you
did," she said spitefully; "you're only a man, when all is said and
done. But if you'll only promise not to interfere, I'll manage it
beautifully all by myself."
"What will you do?" said the doctor, inattentively; and his blindness
to Sarah's charms and her powers made her almost pity such obtuseness.
"I will go and fetch Lady Mary, for one thing, and cheer her up."
"Not a word to her!" he cried, starting up; "remember, I told you in
confidence--though why I was such a fool--"
"Am I likely to forget?" said Sarah; "and you will see one day whether
you were a fool to tell _me_." She said to herself, despairingly, that
the stupidity of mankind was almost past praying for. As the doctor
opened the door for Sarah, Lady Mary herself walked into the room.
She had removed all traces of tears from her face, and, though she was
still very pale, she was quite composed, and ready to smile at them
both.
"Were you coming to fetch me?" she said, taking Sarah's arm
affectionately. "Dr. Blundell, I am afraid luncheon will be terribly
late. The servants have all gone off their heads in the confusion, as
was to be expected. The noise and the welcome upset me so that I dared
not go out on the terrace again. Ash has just been to tell me it's
all over, and that Peter made a capital speech; quite as good as Mr.
John's, he said; but that is hardly a compliment to our K.C.," she
laughed. "I'm afraid Ash is prejudiced."
"Ash was doing the honours with all his might," said the doctor,
gruffly; "handing round cider by the hogshead. Hallo! the speeches
must be really all over," he said, for, above vociferous cheering, the
strains of the National Anthem could just be discerned.
Peter came striding across the terrace, and looked in at the open
window.
"Are you better again, mother?" he called. "Could you come out now?
They've done at last, but they're calling for you."
"Yes, yes; I'm quite ready. I won't be so silly again," said Lady
Mary.
But Peter did not listen. "Why--" he said, and stopped short.
"Surely you haven't forgotten Sarah," said Lady Mary, laughing--"your
little playmate Sarah? But perhaps I ought to say Miss Hewel now."
"How do you do, Sir Peter?" said Sarah, in a very stately manner. "I
am very glad to be here to welcome you home."
Peter, foolishly embarrassed, took the hand she offered with such
gracious composure, and blushed all over his thin, tanned face.
"I--I should hardly have known you," he stammered.
"Really?" said Sarah.
"Won't you," said Peter, still looking at her, "join us on the
terrace?"
"The people aren't calling for _me_" said Sarah.
"But it might amuse you," said Peter, deferentially.
He put up his eyeglass--but though Sarah's red lip quivered, she did
not laugh.
"It's rather jolly, really," he said. "They've got banners, and flags,
and processions, and things. Won't you come?"
"Well--I will," said Sarah. She accepted his help in descending the
step with the air of a princess. "But they'll be so disappointed to
see me instead of your mother."
"Disappointed to see _you_!" said Peter, stupefied.
She stepped forth, laughing, and Peter followed her closely. John
Crewys stood aside to let them pass. Lady Mary, half amazed and half
amused, realized suddenly that her son had forgotten he came back to
fetch her. She hesitated on the threshold. More cheers and confused
shouting greeted Peter's reappearance on the balcony. He turned and
waved to his mother, and the canon came hurrying over the grass.
"The people are shouting for Lady Mary; they want Lady Mary," he
cried.
John Crewys looked at her with a smile, and held out his hand, and she
stepped over the sill, and went away across the terrace garden with
him.
The doctor turned his face from the crowd, and went back alone into
the empty room.
"Who _doesn't_ want Lady Mary?" he said to himself, forlornly.