Torrents of falling rain obscured the valley of the Youle. The grey
clouds floated below the ridges of the hills, and wreathed the
tree-tops. Against the dim purple of the distance, the October roses
held up melancholy, rain-washed heads; and sudden gusts of wind sent
little armies of dead, brown leaves racing over the stone pavement of
the terrace.
Lady Mary leant her forehead against the window, and gazed out upon
the autumn landscape; and John Crewys watched her with feelings not
altogether devoid of self-reproach.
Perhaps he had carried his prudent consideration too far.
His reverence for his beautiful lady--who reigned in John's inmost
thoughts as both saint and queen--had caused him to determine that she
must come to him, when she did come, without a shadow of self-reproach
to sully the joy of her surrender, the fulness, of her bliss, in the
perfect sympathy and devotion which awaited her.
But John Crewys--though passionately desiring her companionship, and
impatient of all barriers, real or imaginary, which divided her from
him--yet lived a life very full of work and interest and pleasure on
his own account. He was only conscious of his loneliness at times;
and when he was as busy as he had been during the early half of this
summer, he was hardly conscious of it at all.
He had not fully realized the effect that this time of waiting and
uncertainty might have upon her, in the solitude to which he had left
her, and which he had at first supposed would be altogether occupied
by Peter. Her letters--infrequent as he, in his self-denial, had
suggested--were characterized by a delicate reserve and a tacit
refusal to take anything for granted in their relations to each other,
which half charmed and half tantalized John; but scarcely enlightened
him regarding the suspense and sadness which at this time she was
called upon to bear.
When he came to Barracombe, he knew that she had suffered greatly
during these months of his absence, and reproached himself angrily for
blindness and selfishness.
He had spent the first weeks of his long vacation in Switzerland, in
order to bring the date of his visit to the Youle Valley as near as
possible to the date of Peter's coming of age; but, also, he had been
very much overworked, and felt an absolute want of rest and change
before entering upon the struggle which he supposed might await him,
and for which he would probably need all the good humour and good
sense he possessed. So far as he was personally concerned, there
was no doubt that his proceedings had been dictated by wisdom and
judgment.
The fatigue and irritability, consequent upon too much mental labour,
and too little fresh air and exercise, had vanished. John was in good
health and good spirits, clear of brain and eye, and vigorous of
person, when he arrived at Barracombe; in the mild, wet, misty weather
which heralded the approach of a typical Devonshire autumn.
But when he looked at Lady Mary, he knew that he would have been
better able to dispense with that holiday interval than she was to
have endured it.
She had always been considered marvellously young-looking for her age.
The quiet country life she had led had bestowed that advantage upon
her; and her beauty, fair as she was, had always been less dependent
on colouring than upon the exquisite delicacy of her features and
general contour. But now a heaviness beneath the blue eyes,--a little
fading of her brightness--a little droop of the beautifully shaped
mouth,--almost betrayed her seven and thirty years; and the soft,
abundant, brown hair was threaded quite perceptibly with silver. Her
sweet face smiled upon him; but the smile was no longer, he thought,
joyous--but pathetic, as of one who reproaches herself wonderingly for
light-heartedness.
John looked at her in silence, but the words he uttered in his heart
were, "I will never leave you any more."
Perhaps his face said everything that he did not say, for Lady Mary
had turned from him with a little sob, and leant her forehead on her
hands, looking out at the rain which swept the valley. She felt, as
she had always felt in John's presence, that here was her champion and
her protector and her slave, in one; returned to restore her failing
courage and her lost self-confidence.
"So you saw something of Peter in London?" she said tremulously,
breaking the silence which had fallen between them after their first
greeting. "Please tell me. You know I have seen almost nothing of him
since he came home."
"So I gather," said John. "Yes, I saw something--not very much--of
Master Peter in London. You see I am not much of a society man;" and
he laughed.
"Was Peter a society man?" said his mother, laughing also, but rather
sadly.
"He went out a good deal, and was to be met with in most places," John
answered.
"I read his name in lists of dances given by people I did not know he
had ever heard of. But I did not like to ask him how he managed to
get invited. He rather dislikes being questioned," said Lady Mary,
describing Peter's prejudices as mildly as possible.
"I fancy Miss Sarah could tell you," said John, with twinkling eyes.
"I did not know--just a girl--could get a stranger, a boy like Peter,
invited everywhere," said Lady Mary, innocently.
John laughed. "Peter is a very eligible boy," he said, "and Sarah is
not 'just a girl,' but a very clever young woman indeed; and Lady
Tintern is a ball-giver. But if he had been the most ordinary of
youths, a bachelor's foothold on the dance-lists is the easiest thing
in the world to obtain. It means nothing in itself."
"I think it meant a good deal to Peter," said his mother, with a sigh.
"If only I could think Sarah were in earnest."
"I don't see why not," said John.
Then he came and took Lady Mary's hand, and led her to a seat next the
fire.
"Come and sit down comfortably," he said, "and let us talk everything
over. It looks very miserable out-of-doors, and nothing could be more
delightful than this room, and nobody to disturb us. I want the real
history of the last few months. Do you know your letters told me
almost nothing?"
The room was certainly delightful, and not the less so for the Chill
rain without, which beat against the windows, and enhanced the bright
aspect of the scene within.
A little fire burned cheerfully in the polished grate, and cast its
glow upon the burnished fender, and the silver ornaments and
trifles on a rosewood table beyond. The furniture was bright with
old-fashioned glossy chintz; the rose-tinted walls were hung with fine
water-colour drawings; the windows with rose-silk curtains.
The hardy outdoor flowers were banished to the oaken hall. Lady Mary's
sense of the fitness of things permitted the silver cups and Venetian
glasses of this dainty apartment to be filled only with waxen hothouse
blooms and maidenhair fern.
She could not but be conscious of the restfulness of her surroundings,
and of John's calm, protecting presence, as he placed her tenderly in
the corner of the fireside couch, and took his place beside her.
"I don't think the last months have had any history at all," she said
dreamily. "I have missed you, John. But that--you know already. I--I
have been very lonely--since--since Peter came home. I think it was
Sarah who persuaded him to go away again so soon. I believe she
laughed at his clothes."
"I suppose they _were_ a little out of date, and he must surely have
outgrown them, besides," said John, smiling.
"I suppose so; anyway, I think it must have been that which put it
into his head to go to London and buy more. It was a little awkward
for the poor boy, because he had just been scolding _me_ for wishing
to go to London. But he said he would only be a few days."
"And he stayed to the end of the season?"
"Yes. Of course the aunts put it down to Sarah. I dare say it _was_
her doing. I don't know why she should wish to rob me of my boy just
for--amusement," said Lady Mary, rather resentfully. "But I have not
understood Sarah lately; she has seemed so hard and flippant. You are
laughing, John? I dare say I am jealous and inconsistent. You are
quite right. One moment I want to think Sarah in earnest--and willing
to marry my boy; and the next I remember that I began to hate his wife
the very day he was born."
"It appears to be the nature of mothers," said John, indulgently.
"But you will allow _me_ to hope for Peter's happiness, and quite
incidentally, of course, for our own?"
She smiled. "Seriously, John, I wish you would tell me how he got on
in London."
"He dined with me once or twice, as you know," said John, "and was
very friendly. I think he was relieved that I made no suggestion of
tutors or universities, and that I took his eyeglass for granted. In
short, that I treated him as I should treat any other young man of my
acquaintance; whereas he had greatly feared I might presume upon my
guardianship to give him good advice. But I did not, because he is too
young to want advice just now, and prefers, like most of us, to buy
his own experience."
"I hope he was really nice to you. You won't hide anything? You'll
tell me exactly?"
"I am hiding nothing. The lad is a good lad at bottom, and a manly one
into the bargain," said John. "His defects are of the kind which get
up, so to speak, and hit you in the eye; and are, consequently, not
of a kind to escape observation. What is obviously wrong is easiest
cured. He has yet to learn that 'manners maketh man,' but he was
learning it as fast as possible. The mistakes of youth are rather
pathetic than annoying."
"Sometimes," said Lady Mary.
"He fell, very naturally, into most of the conventional errors which
beset the inexperienced Londoner," said John, smiling slightly at the
recollection. "He talked in a familiar manner of persons whose names
were unknown to him the day before yesterday; and told well-known
anecdotes about well-known people whom he hadn't had time to meet, as
though they had only just happened. The kind of stories outsiders
tell to new-comers. And he professed to be bored at every party he
attended. I won't say that the _habitué_ is always too well bred, or
too grateful to his entertainers, to do anything of the kind; but he
is certainly too wise or too cautious."
"Perhaps he was bored?" said Lady Mary, wistfully. "Knowing nobody,
poor boy."
"The first time I met him on neutral ground was at a dance," said
John. "He looked very tall and nervous and lonely, and, of course, he
was not dancing; but, nevertheless, he was the hero of the evening,
or so Miss Sarah gave me to understand. But you can imagine it for
yourself. The war just over, and a young fellow who has lost so much
in it; the gallant nephew of the gallant Ferries; besides his own
romantic name, and his eligibility. I took him off to the National
Gallery, to make acquaintance with the portrait of our cavalier
ancestor there; and I declare there is a likeness. Miss Sarah had
visited it long ago, it appears. For my part, I am glad to think that
these fashionable young women can still be so enthusiastic about a
wounded soldier. Sarah said they were all wild to dance with him, and
ready to shed tears for his lost arm."
"And was he much with Sarah?"
John laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "Miss Sarah is a star with
many satellites. She raised my hopes, however, by appearing to have a
few smiles to spare for Peter."
"And she must have got him the invitation to Tintern Castle," said
Lady Mary. "That is why he went up to Scotland."
"I see."
"Then she got him another invitation, I suppose, for he went to the
next house she stayed at; and to a third place for some yachting."
"What did Lady Tintern say?"
"That's just it. Sarah is in Lady Tintern's black books just now. She
is furious with her, Mrs. Hewel tells me, because she has refused Lord
Avonwick."
"Hum!" said John. "He has forty thousand a year."
"I don't think money would tempt Sarah to marry a man she did not
love," said Lady Mary, reproachfully. "There was Mr. Van Graaf, the
African millionaire. She wouldn't look at him, and he offered to
settle untold sums upon her."
"Did he? What a brute!"
"Why?"
"Never mind. You've not seen him. I'm glad he found Sarah wasn't for
sale. But doesn't all this look as if it were Peter, after all?"
"If only I could think she were in earnest," Lady Mary said again.
"But he is such a boy. She has three times his cleverness in some
ways, and three times his experience, though she is younger than he. I
suppose women mature much earlier than men. It galls my pride when she
orders him about, and laughs at him. But he--he doesn't understand."
"Perhaps," said John, slowly, "he understands better than you think.
Each generation has a freemasonry of its own. I must confess I have
heard scraps of chatter and chaff in ballrooms and theatres which have
filled me with amazement, wondering how it could be possible that
such poor stuff should pass muster as conversation, or coquetry, or
gallantry, with the youths and maidens of to-day. But when I have
observed further, instead of an offended fair, or a disillusioned
swain, behold! two young heads close together, two young faces
sparkling with smiles and satisfaction. And the older person, who
would fatuously join in with a sensible remark, spoils all the
enjoyment. The fact is, the secret of real companionship is not
quality, but equality. There's a punning platitude for you."
"It may be a platitude, but I am beginning to discover that what are
called platitudes by the young are biting truths to the old," said
Lady Mary. "I've felt it a thousand times. Words come so easily to my
lips when I'm speaking to you, I am so certain you will understand and
respond. But with Peter, I sometimes feel as though I were dumb or
stupid. Perhaps you've been too--too kind; you've understood too
quickly. I've been too ready to believe that you've found me--"
"Everything I wanted to find you," interrupted John, tenderly; "and
that was something quite out of the common."
She smiled and shook her head. "I am ready to believe all the nice
things you can say, as fast as you can say them, when I am with _you_"
she said, with a raillery rather mournful than gay. "But when I am
with Peter, I seem to realize dreadfully that I'm only a middle-aged
woman of average capacity, and with very little knowledge of the
world. He does his best to teach me. That's funny, isn't it?"
"It's very like--a very young man," said John, gently.
"You mustn't think I'm mocking at my boy--like Sarah," she said
vehemently. "Perhaps I am wrong to tell you. Perhaps only a mother
would really understand. But it makes me a little sad and bewildered.
My boy--my little baby, who lay in my arms and learnt everything from
me. And now he looks down and lectures me from such an immense height
of superiority, never dreaming that I'm laughing in my heart, because
it's only little Peter, after all."
"And he doesn't lecture Sarah?"
"Oh no; he doesn't lecture Sarah. She is too young to be lectured with
impunity, and too wise. Besides, I think since he went away, and saw
Sarah flattered and spoilt, and queening it among the great people
who didn't know him even by sight, that he has realized that their
relative positions have changed a good deal. You see, little Sarah
Hewel, as she used to be, would have been making quite a great
match in marrying Peter. But Lady Tintern's adopted daughter and
heiress--old Tintern left an immense fortune to his wife, didn't
he?--is another matter altogether. And how could she settle down to
this humdrum life after all the excitement and gaiety she's been
accustomed to?"
"Women do such things every day. Besides--"
"Yes?"
"Is Peter still so much enamoured of a humdrum life?" said John,
dryly.
"I have had no opportunity of finding out; but I am sure he will want
to settle down quietly when all this is over--"
"You mean when he's no longer in love with Sarah?"
"He's barely one-and-twenty; it can't last," said Lady Mary.
"I don't know. If she's so much cleverer than he, I'm inclined to
think it may," said John.
"Oh, of course, if he married her--it would last," said Lady Mary.
"And then?" said John, smiling.
"Perhaps _then_," said Lady Mary; and she laid her hand softly in the
strong hand outstretched to receive it.