Peter stood on his own front door steps, on the shady side of the
house, in the fresh air of the early morning. The unnecessary eyeglass
twinkled on his breast as he looked forth upon the goodliness and
beauty of his inheritance. The ever-encroaching green of summer had
not yet overpowered the white wealth of flowering spring; for the
season was a late one, and the month of June still young.
The apple-trees were yet in blossom, and the snowy orchards were
scattered over the hillsides between patches of golden gorse. The
lilacs, white and purple, were in flower, amid scarlet rhododendrons
and branching pink and yellow tree-azaleas. The weeping barberry
showered gold dust upon the road.
On the lower side of the drive, the rolling grass slopes were
thriftily left for hay; a flowering mass of daisies, and buttercups,
and red clover, and blue speedwell.
A long way off, but still clearly visible in the valley below,
glistened the stone-tiled roof of the old square-towered church,
guarded by its sentinel yews.
A great horse-chestnut stood like a giant bouquet of waxen bloom
beside a granite monument which threw a long shadow over the green
turf mounds towards the west, and marked the grave of Sir Timothy
Crewys.
Peter saw that monument more plainly just now than all the rest of his
surroundings, although he was short-sighted, and although his eyes
were further dimmed by sudden tears.
His memories of his father were not particularly tender ones, and his
grief was only natural filial sentiment in its vaguest and lightest
form. But such as it was--the sight of the empty study, which was to
be his own room in future; the strange granite monument shining in
the sun; the rush of home associations which the familiar landscape
aroused--augmented it for the time being, and made the young man glad
of a moment's solitude.
There was the drooping ash--which had made such a cool, refreshing
tent in summer--where he had learnt his first lessons at his mother's
knee, and where he had kept his rabbit-hutch for a season, until his
father had found it out, and despatched it to the stable-yard.
His punishments and the troubles of his childhood had always been
associated with his father, and its pleasures and indulgences with his
mother; but neither had made any very strong impression on Peter's
mind, and it was of his father that he thought with most sympathy, and
even most affection. Partly, doubtless, because Sir Timothy was dead,
and because Peter's memories were not vivid ones, any more than his
imagination was vivid; but also because his mind was preoccupied with
a vague resentment against his mother.
He could not understand the change which was, nevertheless, so
evident. Her new-born brightness and ease of manner, and her strangely
increased loveliness, which had been yet more apparent on the previous
evening, when she was dressed for dinner, than on his first arrival.
It was absurd, Peter thought, in all the arrogance of disdainful
youth, that a woman of her age should have learnt to care for her
appearance thus; or to wear becoming gowns, and arrange her hair like
a fashion plate.
If it had been Sarah he could have understood.
At the thought of Sarah the colour suddenly flushed across his thin,
tanned face, and he moved uneasily.
Sarah, too, was changed; but not even Peter could regret the change in
Sarah.
The loveliness of his mother, refined and white and delicate as she
was, did not appeal to him; but Sarah, in her radiant youth, with her
brilliant colouring--fresh as a May morning, buxom as a dairymaid,
scornful as a princess--had struck Sir Peter dumb with admiration,
though he had hitherto despised young women. It almost enraged him to
remember that this stately beauty had ever been an impudent little
schoolgirl, with a turned-up nose and a red pigtail. In days gone by,
Miss Sarah had actually fought and scratched the spoilt boy, who tried
to tyrannize over his playmate as he tyrannized over his mother and
his aunts. On the other hand, the recollection of those early days
also became precious to Peter for the first time.
Sarah!
It was difficult to be sentimental on the subject, but difficulties
are easily surmounted by a lover; and though Sarah's childhood
afforded few facilities for ecstatic reverie, still--there had been
moments, and especially towards the end of the holidays, when he and
Sarah had walked on the banks of the river, with arms round each
other's necks, sharing each other's toffee and confidences.
Poor Sarah had been first despatched to a boarding school as
unmanageable, at the age of seven, and thereafter her life had been a
changeful one, since her father could not live without her, and her
mother would not keep her at home. She had always presented a lively
contrast to her elder brothers, who were all that a parent's heart
could desire, and too old to be much interested in their little
rebellious sister.
Her high spirits survived disgrace and punishment and periodical
banishment. Though not destitute of womanly qualities, she was more
remarkable for hoydenish ones; and her tastes were peculiar and
varied. If there were a pony to break in, a sick child to be nursed, a
groom to scold, a pig to be killed--there was Sarah; but if a frock to
try on, a visit to be paid, a note to be written--where was she?
Peter, recalling these things, tried to laugh at himself for his
extraordinary infatuation of the previous day; but he knew very well
in his heart that he could not really laugh, and that he had lain
awake half the night thinking of her.
Sarah had spent the rest of the day at Barracombe after Peter's
return, and had been escorted home late in the evening. Could he ever
forget those moments on the terrace, when she had paced up and down
beside him, in the pleasant summer darkness; her white neck and arms
gleaming through transparent black tulle; sometimes listening to the
sounds of music and revelry in the village below, and looking at the
rockets that were being let off on the river-banks; and sometimes
asking him of the war, in that low voice which thrilled Peter as it
had already thrilled not a few interested hearers before him?
Those moments had been all too few, because John Crewys also had
monopolized a share of Miss Sarah's attention. Peter did not dislike
his guardian, whose composed courtesy and absolute freedom from
self-consciousness, or any form of affectation, made it difficult
indeed not to like him. His remarks made Peter smile in spite of
himself, though he could not keep the ball of conversation rolling
like Miss Sarah, who was not at all afraid of the great counsel, but
matched his pleasant wit, with a most engaging impudence all her own.
Lady Mary had stood clasping her son's arm, full of thankfulness for
his safe return; but she, too, had been unable to help laughing at
John, who purposely exerted himself to amuse her and to keep her from
dwelling upon their parting on the morrow.
Her thoughtful son insisted that she must avoid exposure to the night
air, and poor Lady Mary had somewhat ruefully returned to the society
of the old ladies within; but John Crewys did not, as he might, and as
Peter had supposed he would, join the other old folk. Peter classed
his mother and aunts together, quite calmly, in his thoughts. He
listened to Sarah's light talk with John, watching her like a man in a
dream, hardly able to speak himself; and it is needless to say that he
found her chatter far more interesting and amusing than anything John
could say.
Who could have dreamt that little Sarah would grow up into this
bewitching maiden? There was a girl coming home on board ship, the
young wife of an officer, whom every one had raved about and called so
beautiful. Peter almost laughed aloud as he contrasted Sarah with his
recollections of this lady.
How easy it was to talk to Sarah! How much easier than to his mother;
whom, nevertheless, he loved so dearly, though always with that faint
dash of disapproval which somehow embittered his love.
He could not shake off the impression of her first appearance, coming
singing down the oak staircase, in her white gown. _His mother!_
Dressed almost like a girl, and, worst of all, looking almost like a
girl, so slight and white and delicate. Peter recollected that Sir
Timothy had been very particular about his wife's apparel. He liked it
to be costly and dignified, and she had worn stiff silks and poplins
inappropriate to the country, but considered eminently suited to her
position by the Brawnton dressmaker. And her hair had been parted on
her forehead, and smoothed over her little ears. Sir Timothy did not
approve of curling-irons and frippery.
Peter did not know that his mother had cried over her own appearance
often, before she became indifferent; and if he had known, he would
have thought it only typical of the weakness and frivolity which he
had heard attributed to Lady Mary from his earliest childhood.
His aunts were not intentionally disloyal to their sister-in-law;
but their disapproval of her was too strong to be hidden, and they
regarded a little boy as blind and deaf to all that did not directly
concern his lessons or his play. Thus Peter had grown up loving his
mother, but disapproving of her, and the disapproval was sometimes
more apparent than the love.
After breakfast the new squire took an early walk with his guardian,
and inspected a few of the changes which had taken place in the
administration of his tiny kingdom. Though Peter was young and
inexperienced, he could not be blind to the immense improvements made.
He had left a house and stables shabby and tumble-down and out of
repair; rotting woodwork, worn-off paint, and missing tiles had been
painfully evident. Broken fences and hingeless gates were the rule,
and not the exception, in the grounds.
Now all deficiencies had been made good by a cunning hand that had
allowed no glaring newness to be visible; a hand that had matched old
tiles, and patched old walls, and planted creepers, and restored an
almost magical order and comfort to Peter's beautiful old house.
Where Sir Timothy's grumbling tenants had walked to the nearest brook
for water, they now found pipes brought to their own cottage doors.
The home-farm, stables, yards, and cowsheds were drained and paved;
fallen outbuildings replaced, uneven roads gravelled and rolled; dead
trees removed, and young ones planted, shrubberies trimmed, and views
long obscured once more opened out.
Peter did not need the assurances of Mr. Crawley to be aware that his
inheritance would be handed back to him improved a thousand-fold.
He was astounded to find how easily John had arranged matters over
which his father had grumbled and hesitated for years. Even the
dispute with the Crown had been settled by Mr. Crawley without
difficulty, now that Sir Timothy's obstinacy no longer stood in the
way of a reasonable compromise.
John Crewys had faithfully carried out the instructions of the will;
and there were many thousands yet left of the sum placed at his
disposal for the improvements of the estate; a surplus which would
presently be invested for Peter's benefit, and added to that carefully
tied-up capital over which Sir Timothy had given his heir no
discretionary powers.
Peter spent a couple of hours walking about with John, and took an
intelligent interest in all that had been done, from the roof and
chimney-pots of the house, to the new cider-mill and stable fittings;
but though he was civil and amiable, he expressed no particular
gratitude nor admiration on his return to the hall, where his mother
eagerly awaited him.
It consoled her to perceive that he was on excellent terms with his
guardian, offering to accompany him in the dog-cart to Brawnton,
whither John was bound, to catch the noon express to town.
"You will have him all to yourself after this," said John Crewys,
smiling down upon Lady Mary during his brief farewell interview, which
took place in the oriel window of the banqueting-hall, within sight,
though not within hearing, of the two old sisters. "I am sorry to take
him off to Brawnton, but I could hardly refuse his company."
"No, no; I am only glad you should take every opportunity of knowing
him better," she said.
"And you will be happier without any divided feelings at stake," he
said. "Give yourself up entirely to Peter for the next three or four
months, without any remorse concerning me. For the present, at
least, I shall be hard at work, with little enough time to spare
for sentiment." There was a tender raillery in his tone, which she
understood. "When I come back we will face the situation, according to
circumstances. By-the-by, I suppose it is not to be thought of that
Miss Sarah should prolong her Whitsuntide holidays much further?"
"She ought to have returned to town earlier, but Mrs. Hewel was ill,"
said Lady Mary. "She is a tiresome woman. She moved heaven and earth
to get rid of poor Sarah, and, now the child has had a _succès_, she
is always clamouring for her to come back."
"Ah!" said John, thoughtfully, "and you will moot to Peter the scheme
for taking a house in town? But I should advise you to be guided by
his wishes over that. Still, it would be very delightful to meet
during our time of waiting; and that would be the only way. I won't
come down here again until I can declare myself. It is a--false
position, under the circumstances."
"I know; I understand," said Lady Mary; "but I am afraid Peter won't
want to stir from home. He is so glad to be back, poor boy, one can
hardly blame him; and he shares his father's prejudices against
London."
"Does he, indeed?" said John, rather dryly. "Well, make the most of
your summer with him. _You_ will get only too much London--in the near
future."
"Perhaps," Lady Mary said, smiling.
But, in spite of herself, John's confidence communicated itself to
her.
When Peter and John had departed, Lady Mary went and sat alone in the
quiet of the fountain garden, at the eastern end of the terrace. The
thick hedges and laurels which sheltered it had been duly thinned and
trimmed, to allow the entrance of the morning sunshine. Roses and
lilies bloomed brightly round the fountain now, but it was still
rather a lonely and deserted spot, and silent, save for the sighing of
the wind, and the tinkle of the dropping water in the stone basin.
A young copper beech, freed from its rankly increasing enemies of
branching laurel and encroaching bramble, now spread its glory of
transparent ruddy leaf in the sunshine above trim hedges, here and
there diversified by the pale gold of a laburnum, or the violet
clusters of a rhododendron in full flower. Rare ferns fringed the
edges of the little fountain, where diminutive reptiles whisked in
and out of watery homes, or sat motionless on the brink, with fixed,
glassy eyes.
Lady Mary had come often to this quiet corner for rest and peace and
solitude in days gone by. She came often still, because she had a
fancy that the change in her favourite garden was typical of the
change in her life,--the letting-in of the sunshine, where before
there had been only deepest shade; the pinks and forget-me-nots which
were gaily blowing, where only moss and fungi had flourished; the
blooming of the roses, where the undergrowth had crossed and recrossed
withered branches above bare, black soil.
She brought her happiness here, where she had brought her sorrow and
her repinings long ago.
A happiness subdued by many memories, chastened by long anxiety,
obscured by many doubts, but still happiness.
There was to be no more of that heart-breaking anxiety. Her boy
had been spared to come home to her; and John--John, who always
understood, had declared that, for the present, at least, Peter must
come first.
The whole beautiful summer lay before her, in which she was to be free
to devote herself to her wounded hero. She must set herself to charm
away that shadow of discontent--of disapproval--that darkened Peter's
grey eyes when they rested upon her; a shadow of which she had been
only too conscious even before he went to South Africa.
She made a thousand excuses for him, after telling herself that he
needed none.
Poor boy! he had been brought up in such narrow ways, such an
atmosphere of petty distrust and fault-finding and small aims. Even
his bold venture into the world of men had not enabled him to shake
off altogether the influence of his early training, though it had
changed him so much for the better; it had not altogether cured
Peter of his old ungraciousness, partly inherited, and partly due to
example.
But he had returned full of love and tenderness and penitence, though
his softening had been but momentary; and when she had brought him
under the changed influences which now dominated her own life, she
could not doubt that Peter's nature would expand.
He should see that home life need not necessarily be gloomy; that
all innocent pleasures and interests were to be encouraged, and not
repressed. If he wanted to spend the summer at home--and after his
long absence what could be more natural?--she would exert herself
to make that home as attractive as possible. Why should they not
entertain? John had said there was plenty of money. Peter should have
other young people about him. She remembered a scene, long ago, when
he had brought a boy of his own age in to lunch without permission.
She would have to let Peter understand how welcome she should make
his friends; he must have many more friends now. While she was yet
_châtelaine_ of Barracombe, it would be delightful to imbue him with
some idea of the duties and pleasures of hospitality. Lady Mary's eyes
sparkled at the thought of providing entertainment for many young
soldiers, wounded or otherwise. They should have the best of
everything. She was rich, and Peter was rich, and there was no harm in
making visitors welcome in that great house, and filling the rooms,
that had been silent and empty so long, with the noise and laughter of
young people.
She would ask Peter about the horses to-morrow. John had purposely
refrained from filling the stables which had been so carefully
restored and fitted. There were very few horses. Only the cob for
the dog-cart, and a pair for the carriage, so old that the coachman
declared it was tempting Providence to sit behind them. They were
calculated to have attained their twentieth year, and were driven at a
slow jog-trot for a couple of hours every day, except Sundays, in the
barouche. James Coachman informed Lady Belstone and Miss Crewys that
either steed was liable to drop down dead at any moment, and that they
could not expect the best of horses to last for ever; but the old
ladies would neither shorten nor abandon their afternoon drive, nor
consent to the purchase of a new pair. They continued to behave as
though horses were immortal.
Sir Timothy's old black mare was turned out to graze, partly from
sentiment, and partly because she, too, was unfitted for any practical
purposes; and Peter had outgrown his pony before he went away, though
he had ridden it to hounds many times, unknown to his father. Lady
Mary thought it would be a pleasure to see her boy well mounted and
the stables filled. John had said that the loss of his arm would
certainly not prevent Peter from riding. She found herself constantly
referring to John, even in her plans for Peter's amusement.
Strong, calm, patient John--who was prepared to wait; and who would
not, as he said, snatch happiness at the expense of other people's
feelings. How wise he had been to agree that, for the present, she
must devote herself only to Peter! She and Peter would be all in all
to each other as Peter himself had suggested, and as she had once
dreamed her son would be to his mother; though, of course, it was not
to be expected that a boy could understand everything, like John.
She must make great allowances; she must be patient of his inherited
prejudices; above all, she must make him happy.
Afterwards, perhaps, when Peter had learned to do without her--as he
would learn too surely in the course of nature--she would be free
to turn to John, and put her hand in his, and let him lead her
whithersoever he would.
Peter saw his guardian off at Brawnton, dutifully standing at
attention on the platform until the train had departed, instead of
starting home as John suggested.
When he came out of the station he stood still for a moment,
contemplating the stout, brown cob and the slim groom, who was waiting
anxiously to know whether Sir Peter would take the reins, or whether
he was to have the honour of driving his master home.
"I think I'll walk back, George," said Peter, with a nonchalant air.
"Take the cob along quietly, and let her ladyship know directly you
get in that I'm returning by Hewelscourt woods, and the ferry."
"Very good, Sir Peter," said the youth, zealously.
"It would be only civil to look in on the Hewels as Sarah is going
back to town so soon," said Peter to himself. "And it's rot driving
all those miles on the sunny side of the river, when it's barely three
miles from here to Hewelscourt and the ferry, and in the shade all the
way. I shall be back almost as soon as the cart."
A little old lady, dressed in shabby black silk, looked up from
the corner of the sofa next the window, when Peter entered the
drawing-room at Hewelscourt, after the usual delay, apologies, and
barking of dogs which attends the morning caller at the front door of
the average country house.
Peter, who had expected to see Mrs. Hewel and Sarah, repented himself
for a moment that he had come at all when he beheld this stranger, who
regarded him with a pair of dark eyes that seemed several times too
large for her small, wrinkled face, and who merely nodded her head in
response to his awkward salutation.
"Ah!" said the old lady, rather as though she were talking to herself,
"so this is the returned hero, no doubt. How do you do? The rejoicing
over your home-coming kept me awake half the night."
Peter was rather offended at this free-and-easy method of address. It
seemed to him that, since the old lady evidently knew who he was, she
might be a little more respectful in her manner.
"The festivities were all over soon after eleven," he said stiffly.
"But perhaps you are accustomed to early hours?"
"Perhaps I am," said the old lady; she seemed more amused than abashed
by Peter's dignity of demeanour. "At any rate, I like my beauty sleep
to be undisturbed; more especially in the country, where there are so
many noises to wake one up from four o'clock in the morning onwards."
"I have always understood," said Peter, who inherited his father's
respect for platitudes, "that the country was much quieter than the
town. I suppose you live in a town?"
"I suppose I do," said the old lady.
Peter put up his eyeglass indignantly, to quell this disrespectful
old woman with a frigid look, modelled upon the expression of his
board-ship hero.
The door opened suddenly.
He dropped his eyeglass with a start. But it was only Mrs. Hewel who
entered, and not Sarah, after all.
Her _embonpoint_, and consequently her breathlessness, had much
increased since Peter saw her last.
"Oh, Peter," she cried, "this is nice of you to come over and see us
so soon. We were wondering if you would. Dear, dear, how thankful your
mother must be! I know what I was with the boys--and decorated and
all--though poor Tom and Willie got nothing; but, as the papers said,
it wasn't always those who deserved it most--still, I'm glad _you_ got
something, anyway; it's little enough, I'm sure, to make up for--"
Then she turned nervously to the old lady. "Aunt Elizabeth, this is
Sir Peter Crewys, who came home last night."
"I have already made acquaintance with Sir Peter, since you left me to
entertain him," said the old lady, nodding affably.
"Lady Tintern arrived unexpectedly by the afternoon train yesterday,"
explained Mrs. Hewel, in her flustered manner, turning once more to
Peter. "She has only been here twice before. It was such a surprise to
Sarah to find her here when she came back."
Peter grew very red. Who could have supposed that this shabby old
person, whom he had endeavoured to snub, was the great Lady Tintern?
"She _didn't_ find me," said the old lady. "I was in bed long before
Sarah came back. I presume this young gentleman escorted her home?"
"I always send a servant across for Sarah whenever she stays at all
late at Barracombe, and always have," said Mrs. Hewel, in hurried
self-defence. "You must remember we are old friends; there never was
any formality about her visits to Barracombe."
"My guardian and I walked down to the ferry, and saw her across the
river, of course," said Peter, rather sulkily.
"But her maid was with her," cried Mrs. Hewel.
"Of course," Peter said again, in tones that were none too civil.
After all, who was Lady Tintern that she should call him to task? And
as if there could be any reason why her oldest playmate should not see
Sarah home if he chose.
At the very bottom of Peter's heart lurked an inborn conviction that
his father's son was a very much more important personage than any
Hewel, or relative of Hewel, could possibly be.
"That was very kind of you and your guardian," said the old lady,
suddenly becoming gracious. "Emily, I will leave you to talk to your
_old friend_. I dare say I shall see him again at luncheon?"
"I cannot stay to luncheon. My mother is expecting me," said Peter.
He would not express any thanks. What business had the presuming old
woman to invite him to luncheon? It was not her house, after all.
"Oh, your mother is expecting you," said Lady Tintern, whose slightly
derisive manner of repeating Peter's words embarrassed and annoyed the
young gentleman exceedingly. "I am glad you are such a dutiful son,
Sir Peter."
She gathered together her letters and her black draperies, and
tottered off to the door, which Peter, who was sadly negligent of _les
petits soins_ forgot to open for her; nor did he observe the indignant
look she favoured him with in consequence.
Sarah came into the drawing-room at last; fresh as the morning dew, in
her summer muslin and fluttering, embroidered ribbons; with a bunch of
forget-me-nots, blue as her eyes, nestling beneath her round, white
chin. Her bright hair was curled round her pretty ears and about her
fair throat, but Peter did not compare this _coiffure_ to a fashion
plate, though, indeed, it exactly resembled one. Neither did he cast
the severely critical glance upon Sarah's _toilette_ that he
had bestowed upon the soft, grey gown, and the cluster of white
moss-rosebuds which poor Lady Mary had ventured to wear that morning.
"How have you managed to offend Aunt Elizabeth, Peter?" cried Sarah,
with her usual frankness. "She is in the worst of humours."
"Sarah!" said her mother, reprovingly.
"Well, but she _is_," said Sarah. "She called him a cub and a bear,
and all sorts of things."
She looked at Peter and laughed, and he laughed back. The cloud of
sullenness had lifted from his brow as she appeared.
Mrs. Hewel overwhelmed him with unnecessary apologies. She could not
grasp the fact that her polite conversation was as dull and unmeaning
to the young man as Sarah's indiscreet nothings were interesting and
delightful.
"I'm sure I don't mind," said Peter; and his tone was quite alert and
cheerful. "She told me the country kept her awake. If she doesn't like
it, why does she come?"
"She has come to fetch me away," said Sarah. "And she came
unexpectedly, because she wanted to see for herself whether mamma was
really ill, or whether she was only shamming."
"Sarah!"
"And she has decided she is only shamming," said Sarah. "Unluckily,
mamma happened to be down in the stables, doctoring Venus. You
remember Venus, her pet spaniel?"
"Of course."
"Nothing else would have taken me off my sofa, where I ought to be
lying at this moment, as you know very well, Sarah," cried Mrs. Hewel,
showing an inclination to shed tears.
"To be sure you ought," said Sarah; "but what is the use of telling
Aunt Elizabeth that, when she saw you with her own eyes racing up and
down the stable-yard, with a piece of raw meat in your hand, and Venus
galloping after you."
"The vet said that if she took no exercise she would die," said Mrs.
Hewel, tearfully, "and neither he nor Jones could get her to move. Not
even Ash, though he has known her all her life. I know it was very bad
for me; but what could I do?"
"I wish I had been there," said Sarah, giggling; "but, however, Aunt
Elizabeth described it all to me so graphically this morning that it
is almost as good as though I had been."
"She should not have come down like that, without giving us a notion,"
said Mrs. Hewel, resentfully.
"If she had only warned us, you could have been lying on a sofa, with
the blinds down, and I could have been holding your hand and shaking
a medicine-bottle," said Sarah. "That is how she expected to find us,
she said, from your letters."
"I am sure I scarcely refer to my weak health in my letters," said
Mrs. Hewel, plaintively, "and it is natural I should like my only
daughter to be with me now and then. Aunt Elizabeth has never had a
child herself, and cannot understand the feelings of a mother."
Sarah and Peter exchanged a fleeting glance. She shrugged her
shoulders slightly, and Peter looked at his boots. They understood
each other perfectly.
Freshly to the recollection of both rose the lamentations of a little
red-haired girl, banished from the Eden of her beloved home, and
condemned to a cheap German school. Mrs. Hewel, in her palmiest days,
had never found it necessary to race up and down the stable-yard to
amuse Sarah; and when her only daughter developed scarlatina, she
had removed herself and her spaniels from home for months to escape
infection.
"Here is papa," said Sarah, breaking the silence. "He was so vexed to
be out when you arrived yesterday. He heard nothing of it till he came
back."
Colonel Hewel walked in through the open window, with his dog at his
heels. He was delighted to welcome his young neighbour home. A short,
sturdy man, with red whiskers, plentiful stiff hair, and bright, dark
blue eyes. From her father Sarah had inherited her colouring, her
short nose, and her unfailing good spirits.
"I would have come over to welcome you," he said, shaking Peter's hand
cordially, "only when I came home there was all the upset of Lady
Tintern's arrival, and half a hundred things to be done to make her
sufficiently comfortable. And then I would have come to fetch Sarah
after dinner, only I couldn't be sure she mightn't have started; and
if I'd gone down by the road, ten to one she'd have come up by the
path through the woods. So I just sat down and smoked my pipe, and
waited for her to come back. You'll stay to lunch, eh, Peter?"
"I must get back to my mother, sir," said Peter. His respect for
Sarah's father, who had once commanded a cavalry regiment, had
increased a thousand-fold since he last saw Colonel Hewel. "But won't
you--I mean she'd be very glad--I wish you'd come over and dine
to-night, all of you--as you could not come yesterday evening?"
Thus Peter delivered his first invitation, blushing with eagerness.
"I'm afraid we couldn't leave Lady Tintern--or persuade her to come
with us," said the colonel, shaking his head. Then he brightened up.
"But as soon as she and Sally have toddled back to town I see no
reason why we shouldn't come, eh, Emily?" he said, turning to his
wife.
Peter looked rather blank, and a laugh trembled on Sarah's pretty
lips.
"You know I'm not strong enough to dine out, Tom," said his wife,
peevishly. "I can't drive so far, and I'm terrified of the ferry at
night, with those slippery banks."
"Well, well, there's plenty of time before us. Later on you may get
better; and I don't suppose you'll be running away again in a hurry,
eh, Peter?" said the colonel. "I'm told you made a capital speech
yesterday about sticking to your home, and living on your land, as
your father, poor fellow, did before you."
"I wish Sarah felt as you do, Peter," said Mrs. Hewel; "but, of
course, she has grown too grand for us, who live contentedly in the
country all the year round. Her home is nothing to her now, it seems;
and the only thing she thinks of is rushing back to London again as
fast as she can."
Sarah, contrary to her wont, received this attack in silence; but she
bestowed a fond squeeze on her father's arm, and cast an appealing
glance at Peter, which caused the hero's heart to leap in his bosom.
"Of course I mean to live at Barracombe," said Peter, polishing his
eyeglass with reckless energy. "But I said nothing to the people about
living there all the year round. On the contrary, I think it more
probable that I shall--run up to town myself, occasionally--just for
the season."