"The very last of the roses," said Lady Mary.
She looked round the banqueting hall. The wax candles shed a radiance
upon their immediate surroundings, which accentuated the shadows of
each unlighted corner. Bowls of roses, red and white and golden,
bloomed delicately in every recess against the black oak of the
panels.
The flames were leaping on the hearth about a fresh log thrown into
the red-hot wood-ash. The two old sisters sat almost in the chimney
corner, side by side, where they could exchange their confidences
unheard.
Lady Belstone still mourned her admiral in black silk and _crêpe_,
whilst Miss Georgina's respect for her brother's memory was made
manifest in plum-coloured satin.
Lady Mary, too, wore black to-night. Since the day of Peter's return
she had not ventured to don her favourite white. Her gown was of
velvet; her fair neck and arms shone through the yellowing folds of an
old lace scarf which veiled the bosom. A string of pearls was twisted
in her soft, brown hair, lending a dim crown to her exquisite and
gracious beauty in the tender light of the wax candles.
Candlelight is kind to the victims of relentless time; disdaining to
notice the little lines and shadows care has painted on tired faces;
restoring delicacy to faded complexions, and brightness to sad eyes.
The faint illumination was less kind to Sarah, in her white gown and
blue ribbons. The beautiful colour, which could face the morning
sunbeams triumphantly in its young transparency, was almost too high
in the warmth of the shadowy hall, where her golden-red hair made a
glory of its own.
The October evening seemed chilly to the aged sisters, and even Lady
Mary felt the comfort of her velvet gown; but Sarah was impatient of
the heat of the log fire, and longed for the open air. She envied
Peter and John, who were reported to be smoking outside on the
terrace.
"The very last of the roses," said Lady Mary.
"There will be a sharp frost to-night; they won't stand that," said
Sarah, shaking her head.
"The poor roses of autumn," said Lady Mary, rather dreamily, "they are
never so sweet as the roses of June."
"But they are much rarer, and more precious," said Sarah.
Lady Mary looked at her and smiled. How quickly Sarah always
understood!
Sarah caught her hand and kissed it impulsively. Her back was turned
to the old sisters in the chimney corner.
"Lady Mary," she said, "oh, never mind if I am indiscreet; you know I
am always that." A little sob escaped her. "But I _must_ ask you this
one thing--you--you didn't really think _that_ of me, did you?"
"Think what, dear child?" said Lady Mary, bewildered.
Sarah looked round at the two old ladies.
The head of Miss Crewys was inclined towards the crochet she held in
her lap. She slumbered peacefully.
Lady Belstone was absently gazing into the heart of the great fire.
The heat did not appear to cause her inconvenience. She was nodding.
"They will hear nothing," said Lady Mary, softly. "Tell me, Sarah,
what you mean. I would ask you," she said, with a little smile and
flush, "to tell me something else, only, I--too--am afraid of being
indiscreet."
"There is nothing I would not tell you," murmured Sarah, "though I
believe I would rather tell you--out in the dark--than here," she
laughed nervously.
"The drawing-room is not lighted, except by the moon," said Lady Mary,
also a little excited by the thought of what Sarah might, perhaps, be
going to say; "but there is no fire there, I am afraid. The aunts do
not like sitting there in the evening. But if you would not be too
cold, in that thin, white gown--?"
"I am never cold," said Sarah; "I take too much exercise, I suppose,
to feel the cold."
"Then come," said Lady Mary.
They stole past the sleeping sisters into the drawing-room, and closed
the communicating door as noiselessly as possible.
Here only the moonlight reigned, pouring in through the uncurtained
windows and rendering the gay, rose-coloured room, with its pretty
contents, perfectly weird and unfamiliar.
Sarah flung her warm, young arms about her earliest and most beloved
friend, and rested her bright head against the gentle bosom.
"You never thought I meant all the horrid, cruel things I made Peter
say to you? You never believed it of me, did you? That I wouldn't
marry him unless _you_ went away. You whom I love best in the world,
and always have," she said defiantly, "or that I would ever alter a
single corner of this dear old house, which used to be so hideous, and
which you have made so beautiful?"
"Sarah! My--my darling!" said Lady Mary, in frightened, trembling
tones.
"You needn't blame Peter for saying any of it," said Sarah, "for it
was I who put the words into his mouth. It made him miserable to
say them; but he could not help himself. He wasn't really quite
responsible for his actions. He isn't now. When people are--are in
love, I've often noticed they're not responsible."
"But why--"
"I only wanted to show him what a goose he really was," murmured
Sarah, hanging her head. "He came back so pompous and superior;
talking about his father's place, and being the only man in the house,
and obliged to look after you all; and it was all so ridiculous, and
so out of date. I didn't mean to hurt _you_ except just for a moment,
because it could not be helped," said Sarah. She hid her face in Lady
Mary's neck, half laughing and half crying. "I was so afraid you--you
were taking him seriously; and--and he was so selfish, wanting to keep
you all to himself."
"Oh, Sarah, hush!" Lady Mary cried.
She divined it all in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye. It was to
Sarah that she owed the pain and mortification, not to her boy.
Sarah had said Peter was not responsible.
Was he only a puppet in the hands of the girl he loved? Could John
ever have been thus blindly led and influenced? Her wounded heart said
quickly that John was of a different, nobler, stronger nature. But the
mother's instinct leapt to defend her son, and cried also that John
was a man, and Peter but a boy in love, ready to sacrifice the whole
world to her he worshipped. His father would never have done that.
Lady Mary was even capable of an unreasoning pride in Peter's power of
loving; though it was not her--alas! it never had been her--for whom
her boy was willing to make the smallest sacrifice.
But he had honestly meant to devote himself to his mother, according
to his lights, had Sarah's influence not come in the way. Sarah,
who must have divined her secret all the while, and who, with the
dauntlessness of youth, had not hesitated to force open the door
into a world so bright that Lady Mary almost feared to enter it, but
trembled, as it were, upon the threshold of her own happiness--and
Peter's.
They were silent, holding each other in a close embrace, both
conscious of the passing and repassing footsteps upon the gravel path
without.
Sarah was the first to recover herself. She put Lady Mary into her
favourite chair, and came and knelt by her side.
"That's over, and I'm forgiven," she said softly.
"You will make my boy--happy?" whispered Lady Mary.
"I can't tell whether he will be happy or not, if--if he marries me,"
said Sarah. She appeared to smother a laugh. "But Aunt Elizabeth seems
reconciled to the idea. I think you bewitched her this afternoon. She
is in love with you, and with this house, and with Mr. John. But more
particularly with you. When I said I had refused Peter over and over
again, she said I was a fool. But she says that whatever I do. I--I
suppose I let her think," said Sarah, leaning her head against Lady
Mary's knee, "that _some day_--if he is still idiotic enough to wish
it--and if _you_ don't mind--"
"My pretty Sarah--my darling!"
"I'm sure it's only because he's your son," said Sarah, vehemently;
"I've always wanted to be your child. What's the use of pretending I
haven't? Think what a time poor mamma used to give me, and what an
angel of goodness you were to the poor little black sheep who loved
you so."
Sarah's white dress, shining in the moonlight, caught the attention of
John Crewys, through the open window. He paused in his walk outside.
Peter's voice uttered something, and the two dark figures passed
slowly on.
"They won't interrupt us," said Sarah, serenely. "I told Peter at
dinner that I wanted to talk to you, and that he was to go and smoke
with Mr. John, and behave as if nothing had happened. He said he
hadn't spoken to him since this morning. He is all agog to know what
Lady Tintern came for. But he won't dare to come and interrupt."
"What have you done to my boy," said Lady Mary, half laughing and
half indignant, "that your lightest word is to be his law? And oh,
Sarah"--her tone grew wistful--"it is strange--even though he loves
you, that you should understand him better than I, who would lay down
my life for him."
"It's very easy to see why," said Sarah, calmly. The deep contralto
music of her voice contrasted oddly with her matter-of-fact manner and
words. "It's just that Peter and I are made of common clay, and that
you are not. So, of course, we understand each other. I don't mean to
say that we don't quarrel pretty often. I dare say we always shall.
I am good-tempered, but I like my own way; and, besides"--she spoke
quite cheerfully--"anybody would quarrel with Peter. But you and he
are a little like Aunt Elizabeth and me. _She_ wants me to behave like
a _grande dame_, and to know exactly who everybody is, and treat them
accordingly, and be never too much interested in anything, but never
bored; and always look beautiful, and, above all, _appropriate_. And
_I_--would rather be taking the dogs for a run on the moors, in a
short skirt and big boots; or up at four in the morning otter-hunting;
or out with the hounds; or--or--digging in the garden, for that
matter;--than be the prettiest girl in London, and going to a State
ball or the opera. You see, I've tried both kinds of life now, and
I know which I like best. And--and flirting with people is pleasant
enough in its way, but it gives you a kind of sick feeling afterwards,
which hunting never does. I don't think I'm really much of a hand at
sentiment," said Sarah, with great truth.
"And Peter?" asked Lady Mary, gently.
"You wanted Peter to be a--a noble kind of person, a great statesman,
or something of that sort, didn't you?" Her soft lips caressed Lady
Mary's hand apologetically. "To be fond of reading and poetry, and all
sorts of things; and _he_ wanted to shoot rabbits and go fishing. But,
of course, he couldn't help _knowing_ you wanted him to be something
he wasn't, and never could be, and didn't want to be."
"Oh, Sarah!" said poor Lady Mary. "But--yes, it is true what you are
saying."
"It's true, though I say it so badly; and I know it, because, as I
tell you, Peter and I are just the same sort at heart. I've been
teasing him, pretending to be a worldling, but foreign travel and
entertaining in London are just about as unsuited to me as to Peter.
I--I'm glad"--she uttered a quick, little sob--"that I--I played my
part well while it all lasted; but you know it wasn't so much me as my
looks that did it. And because I didn't care, I was blunt and natural,
and they thought it _chic_. But it wasn't _chic_; it was that I
_really_ didn't care. And I don't think I've ever quite succeeded in
taking Peter in either; for he _couldn't_ believe I could really think
any sort of life worth living but the dear old life down here, which
he and I love best in the world, in our heart of hearts."
The twinkling, frosty blue points of starlight glittered in the
cloudless vault of heaven, above the moonlit stillness of the valley.
The clear-cut shadows of the balcony and the stone urns fell across
the cold paths and whitened grass of the terrace.
Ghostlike, Sarah's white form emerged from the darkness of the room,
and stood on the threshold of the window.
John threw away the end of his cigar, and smiled. "I presume the
interview we were not to interrupt is over?" he said, good-humouredly.
"Surely it is not very prudent of Miss Sarah to venture out-of-doors
in that thin gown; or has she a cloak of some kind--"
But Peter was not listening to him.
Sarah, wrapped in her white cloak and hood, had already flitted across
the moonlit terrace, into the deep shadow of the ilex grove; and the
boy was by her side before John could reach the window she had just
quitted.
"Oh, is it you, Peter?" said Miss Sarah, looking over her shoulder. "I
was looking for you. I have put on my things. It is getting late, and
I thought you would see me home."
"Must you go already?" cried Peter. "Have they sent to fetch you?"
"I dare say I could stay a few moments," said Sarah; "but, of course,
my maid came ages ago, as usual. But if there was anything you
particularly wanted to say--you know how tiresome she is, keeping as
close as she can, to listen to every word--why, it would be better to
say it now. I am not in such a hurry as all that."
"You know very well I want to say a thousand things," said Peter,
vehemently. "I have been walking up and down till I thought I should
go mad, making conversation with John Crewys." Peter was honestly
unaware that it was John who had made the conversation. "Has Lady
Tintern come to take you away, Sarah? And why did she call on my
mother this afternoon, the very moment she arrived?"
"Your mother would be the proper person to tell you that. How should I
know?" said Sarah, reprovingly. "Have you asked her?"
"How can I ask her?" said Peter. His voice trembled. "I've not spoken
to her once--except before other people--since John Crewys told
me--what I told you this afternoon. I've scarcely seen any one since I
left you. I wandered off for a beastly walk in the woods by myself,
as miserable as any fellow would be, after all you said to me. Do you
think I--I've got no feelings?"
His voice sounded very forlorn, and Sarah felt remorseful. After all,
Peter was her comrade and her oldest friend, as well as her lover. At
the very bottom of her heart there lurked a remnant of her childish
admiration for him, which would, perhaps, never quite be extinguished.
The boy who got into scrapes, and was thrashed by his father, and who
did not mind; the boy who vaulted over fences she had to climb or
creep through; who went fishing, and threw a fly with so light and
sure a hand, and filled his basket, whilst she wound her line about
her skirts, and caught her hook, and whipped the stream in vain.
He had climbed a tall fir-tree once, and brought down in safety a
weeping, shame-stricken little girl with a red pigtail, whose daring
had suddenly failed her; and he had gone up the tree himself like a
squirrel afterwards, and fetched her the nest she coveted. Nor did he
ever taunt her with her cowardice nor revert to his own exploit; but
this was because Peter forgot the whole adventure in an hour, though
Sarah remembered it to the end of her life. He climbed so many trees,
and went birds'-nesting every spring to his mother's despair.
Sarah thought of him wandering all the afternoon in his own woods,
lonely and mortified, listening to the popping of the guns on the
opposite side of the hill, which echoed through the valley; she knew
what those sounds meant to Peter--the boy who had shot so straight and
true, and who would never shoulder a gun any more.
"I don't see why you should be so miserable," she said, as lightly
as she could; but there were tears in her eyes, she was so sorry for
Peter.
"I dare say you don't," said Peter, bitterly. "Nobody has ever made a
fool of you, no doubt. A wretched, self-confident fool, who gave you
his whole heart to trample in the dust. I suppose I ought to have
known you were only--playing with me--as you said--a wretched object
as I am now, but--"
"An object!" cried Sarah, so anxious to stem the tide of his
reproaches that she scarce knew what she was saying, "which appeals
to the soft side of every woman's heart, high or low, rich or poor,
civilized or savage--a wounded soldier."
"Do you think I want to be pitied?" said Peter, glowering.
"Pitied!" said Sarah, softly. "Do you call this pity?" She leant
forward and kissed his empty sleeve.
Peter trembled at her touch.
"It is--because you are sorry for me," he said hoarsely.
"Sorry!" said Sarah, scornfully; "I glory in it." Then she suddenly
began to cry. "I am a wicked girl," she sobbed, "and you _were a_
fool, if you ever thought I could be happy anywhere but in this stupid
old valley, or with--with any one but you. And I am rightly punished
if my--my behaviour has made you change your mind. Because I _did_
mean, just at first, to throw you over, and to--to go away from you,
Peter. But--but the arm that wasn't there--held me fast."
"Sarah!"
She hid her face against his shoulder.
* * * * *
John Crewys was playing softly on the little oak piano in the
banqueting hall, and Lady Mary stood before the open hearth, absently
watching the sparks fly upward from the burning logs, and listening.
The old sisters had gone to bed.
Sarah's bright face, framed in her white hood, fresh and rosy from the
cold breath of the October night, appeared in the doorway.
"Peter is in there--waiting for you," she whispered, blushing.
John Crewys rose from the piano, and came forward and held out his
hand to Sarah, with a smile.
Lady Mary hurried past them into the unlighted drawing-room. Her eyes,
dazzled by the sudden change, could distinguish nothing for a moment.
But Peter was there, waiting, and perhaps Lady Mary was thankful for
the darkness, which hid her face from her son.
"Peter!"
"Mother!"
She clung to her boy, and a kiss passed between them which said all
that was in their hearts that night--of appeal--of understanding--of
forgiveness--of the love of mother and son.
And no foolish words of explanation were ever uttered to mar the
gracious memory of that sacred reconciliation.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's Peter's Mother, by Mrs. Henry De La Pasture