CHAPTER VII
"Her didn't make much account on him while him were alive; but now 'cebe dead, 'tis butivul tu zee how her du take on," said Happy Jack.
There was a soft mist of heat; the long-delayed spring comingsuddenly, after storms of cold rain and gales of wind had swept theYoule valley. Two days' powerful sunshine had excited the buds tobreaking, and drawn up the tender blades of young grass from thesoaked earth.
The flowering laurels hung over the shady banks, whereon largefamilies of primroses spent their brief and lovely existenceundisturbed. The hawthorn put forth delicate green leaves, and thewhite buds of the cherry-trees in the orchard were swelling on theirleafless boughs.
In such summer warmth, and with the concert of building birds aboveand around, it was strange to see the dead and wintry aspect of theforest trees; still bare and brown, though thickening with the redpromise of foliage against the April sky.
John Crewys, climbing the lane next the waterfall, had been hailed bythe roadside by the toothless, smiling old rustic.
"I be downright glad to zee 'ee come back, zur; ay, that 'a be. Whatvur du 'ee go gadding London ways, zays I, when there be zuch a turblelot to zee arter? and the ladyship oop Barracombe ways, her bain't vitvar tu du 't, as arl on us du know. Tis butivul tu zee how her takeson," he repeated admiringly.
John glanced uneasily at his companion, who stood with downcast eyes.
"Lard, I doan't take no account on Miss Zairy," said the road-mender,leaning on his hoe and looking sharply from the youthful lady to themiddle-aged gentleman. "I've knowed her zince her wur a little maid. Iused tu give her lolly-pops. Yu speak up, Miss Zairy, and tell 'un ifI didn't."
"To be sure you did, Father Jack," said Sarah, promptly.
"Ah, zo 'a did," said the old man, chuckling. "Zo 'a did, and herladyship avore yu. I mind _her_ when her was a little maid, and prettyways her had wi' her, zame as now. None zo ramshacklin' as yu du be,Miss Zairy."
"There's nobody about that he doesn't remember as a child," saidSarah, apologetically. "He's so old, you see. He doesn't remember howold he is, and nobody can tell him. But he knows he was born in thereign of George the Third, because his mother told him so; and heremembers his father coming in with news of the Battle of Waterloo, SoI think he must be about ninety."
"Lard, mar like a hunderd year old, I be," said Happy Jack, offended."And luke how I du wark yit. Yif I'd 'a give up my wark, I shude 'abin in the churchyard along o' the idlers, that 'a shude." He chuckledand winked. "I du be a turble vunny man," quavered the thin falsettovoice. "They be niver a dune a laughin' along o' my jokes. An' I duremember Zur Timothy's vather zo well as Zur Timothy hisself, though'ee bin dead nigh sixty year. Lard, 'ee was a bad 'un, was y' ouldsquire. An old devil. That's what 'ee was."
"He only means Sir Timothy's father had a bad temper," explainedSarah. "It's quite true."
"Ah, was it timper?" said Jack, sarcastically. "I cude tell 'ee zumtales on 'un. There were a right o' way, zur, acrust the mead thereby,as the volk did claim. And 'a zays, 'A'll putt a stop tu 'un,' 'azays. And him zat on a style, long zide the tharn bush, and 'a took'ee's gun, and 'a zays, 'A'll shute vust man are maid as cumes acrustthiccy vield,' 'a zays. And us knowed 'un wude du 't tu. And 'unbarred the gate, and there t'was."
He laughed till the tears ran down his face, brown as gingerbread, andwrinkled as a monkey's.
"Mr. Crewys is in a hurry, Jack," said Sarah. "He's only just arrivedfrom London, and he's walked all the way from Brawnton."
"'Tain't but a stip vur a vine vellar like 'ee, and wi' a vine maidenlike yu du be grown, var tu kip 'ee company," said Happy Jack. "But'ee'll be in a yurry tu git tu Barracombe, and refresh hisself, in arlthis turble yeat. When the zun du search, the rain du voller."
"I dare say you want a glass of beer yourself," said John, producing acoin from his pocket.
"No, zur, I doan't," said the road-mender, unexpectedly. "Beer doan'tagree wi' my inzide, an' it gits into my yead, and makes me properjolly, zo the young volk make game on me. But I cude du wi' a dropo' zider zur; and drink your health and the young lady's, zur, zo 'acude."
He winked and nodded as he pocketed the coin; and John, half laughingand half vexed, pursued his road with Sarah.
"It seems to me that the old gentleman has become a trifle free andeasy with advancing years," he observed.
"He thinks he has a right to be interested in the family," said Sarah,"because of the connection, you see."
"The connection?"
"Didn't you know?" she asked, with wide-open eyes. "Though you wereSir Timothy's own cousin."
"A very distant cousin," said John.
"But every one in the valley knows," said Sarah, "that Sir Timothy'sfather married his own cook, who was Happy Jack's first cousin. When Iwas a little girl, and wanted to tease Peter," she added ingenuously,"I always used to allude to it. It is the skeleton in their cupboard.We haven't got a skeleton in our family," she added regretfully;"least of all the skeleton of a cook."
John remembered vaguely that there was a story about the secondmarriage of Sir Timothy the elder.
"So she was a cook!" he said. "Well, what harm?" and he laughed inspite of himself. "I wonder why there is something so essentiallyunromantic in the profession of a cook?"
"Her family went to Australia, and they are quite rich people now:no more cooks than you and me," said Sarah, gravely. "But Happy Jackwon't leave Youlestone, though he says they tempted him with untoldgold. And he wouldn't touch his hat to Sir Timothy, because he was hiscousin. That was another skeleton."
"But a very small one," said John, laughing.
"It might seem small to _us_, but I'm sure it was one reason why SirTimothy never went outside his own gates if he could help it," saidSarah, shrewdly. "Luckily the cook died when he was born."
"Why luckily, poor thing?" said John, indignantly.
"She wouldn't have had much of a time, would she, do you think, withSir Timothy's sisters?" asked Sarah, with simplicity. "They were inthe schoolroom when their papa married her, or I am sure they wouldnever have allowed it. Their own mother was a most select person; andlittle thought when she gave the orders for dinner, and all that, whothe old gentleman's _next_ wife would be," said Sarah, giggling. "Theyalways talk of her as the _Honourable Rachel_, since _Lady Crewys_,you know, might just as well mean the cook. I suppose the old squiregot tired of her being so select, and thought he would like a change.He was a character, you know. I often think Peter will be a characterwhen he grows old. He is so disagreeable at times."
"I thought you were so fond of Peter?" said John, looking amusedlydown on the little chatterbox beside him.
"Not exactly fond of him. It's just that I'm _used_ to him," saidSarah, colouring all over her clear, fresh face, even to the littletendrils of red hair on her white neck.
She wore a blue cotton frock, and a brown mushroom hat, with a wreathof wild roses which had somewhat too obviously been sewn on in a hurryand crookedly; and she looked far more like a village schoolgirl thana young lady who was shortly to make her _debut_ in London society.But he was struck with the extraordinary brilliancy of her complexion,transparent and pure as it was, in the searching sunlight.
"If she were not so round-shouldered--if the features were better--herexpression softer," said John to himself--"if divine colouring wereall--she would be beautiful."
But her wide, smiling mouth, short-tipped nose, and cleft chin,conveyed rather the impression of childish audacity than of femininecharm. The glance of those bright, inquisitive eyes was like a wildrobin's, half innocent, half bold. Though her round throat were whiteas milk, and though no careless exposure to sun and wind had yetsucceeded in dimming the exquisite fairness of her skin, yet thedefects and omissions incidental to extreme youth, country breeding,and lack of discipline, rendered Miss Sarah not wholly pleasing inJohn's fastidious eyes. Her carriage was slovenly, her ungloved handswere red, her hair touzled, and her deep-toned voice over-loud andconfident. Yet her fra
nkness and her trustfulness could not fail toevoke sympathy.
"It is--Lady Mary that I am fond of," said the girl, with a yet morevivid blush.
He was touched. "She will miss you, I am sure, when you go to town,"he said kindly.
"If I thought so really, I wouldn't go," said Sarah, vehemently. Shewinked a tear from her long eyelashes. "But I know it's only your goodnature. She thinks of nothing and nobody but Peter. And--and, afterall, when I get better manners, and all that, I shall be more of acompanion to her. I'm very glad to go, if it wasn't for leaving _her_.I like Aunt Elizabeth, whereas mamma and I never _did_ get on. Shecares most for the boys, which is very natural, no doubt, as I wasonly an afterthought, and nobody wanted me. And Aunt Elizabeth hasalways liked me. She says I amuse her with my sharp tongue."
"But you will have to be a little careful of the sharp tongue when youget to London," said John, smiling. He was struck by the half-sly,half-acquiescent look that Sarah stole at him from beneath those longeyelashes. Perhaps her outspokenness was not so involuntary as he hadimagined.
"If I had known you were coming to-day, I would have gone up to saygood-bye to Lady Mary last night," said Sarah, mournfully. "She won'twant me now you are here."
"I have a thousand and one things to look after. I sha'n't be in yourway," said John, good-naturedly, "if she is not busy otherwise."
"Busy!" echoed Sarah. "She sits _so_, with her hands in her lap,looking over the valley. And she has grown, oh, so much thinner andsadder-looking. I thought you would never come."
"I have my own work," said John, hurriedly, "and I thought, besides,she would rather be alone these first few weeks."
Sarah looked up with a flash in her blue eyes, which were so dark, andlarge-pupilled, and heavily lashed, that they looked almost black. Sheground her strong white teeth together.
"If I were Lady Mary," she said, "I would have slammed the old frontdoor behind me the very day after Sir Timothy was buried--and goneaway; I would. There she is, like a prisoner, with the old ladiescounting every tear she sheds, and adding them up to see if it isenough; and measuring every inch of crape on her gowns; and findingfault with all she does, just as they used when Sir Timothy was aliveto back them up. And she is afraid to do anything he didn't like; andshe never listens to the doctor, the only person in the world who'sever had the courage to fight her battles."
"The doctor," said John, sharply. "Has she been ill?"
"No, no."
"What has _he_ to do with Lady Mary?" said John.
His displeasure was so great that the colour rose in his clean-shavenface, and did not escape little Sarah's observation, for all herdowncast lashes.
"Somebody must go and see her," said Sarah; "and you were away. Andthe canon is just nobody, always bothering her for subscriptions;though he is very fond of her, like everybody else," she added, withcompunction. "Dear me, Mr. Crewys, how fast you are walking!"
John had unconsciously quickened his pace so much that she had someado to keep up with him without actually running.
"I beg your pardon," he said.
"It is so hot, and the hill is steep, and I am rather fat. I dare sayI shall fine down as I get older," said Sarah, apologetically. "Itwould be dreadful if I grew up like mamma. But I am more like myfather, thank goodness, and _he_ is simply a mass of hard muscle. Idare say even I could beat you on the flat. But not up this drive.Doesn't it look pretty in the spring?"
"It was very different when I left Barracombe," said John.
He looked round with all a Londoner's appreciation.
In the sunny corner next the ivy-clad lodge an early rhododendronhad burst into scarlet bloom. The steep drive was warmly walled andsheltered on the side next the hill by horse-chestnuts, witch-elms,tall, flowering shrubs and evergreens, and a variety of tree-azaleasand rhododendrons which promised a blaze of beauty later in theseason.
But the other side of the drive lay in full view of the openlandscape; rolling grass slopes stretching down to the orchardsand the valley. Violets, white and blue, scented the air, and theprimroses clustered at the roots of the forest trees.
The gnarled and twisted stems of giant creepers testified to the ageof Barracombe House. Before the entrance was a level space, which madea little spring garden, more formal and less varied in its arrangementthan the terrace gardens on the south front; but no less gay andbright, with beds of hyacinths, red and white and purple, anddaffodils springing amidst their bodyguards of pale, pointed spears.
A wild cherry-tree at the corner of the house had showered snowypetals before the latticed window of the study; the window whence SirTimothy had taken his last look at the western sky, and from whichhis watchful gaze had once commanded the approach to his house, andobserved almost every human being who ventured up the drive.
On the ridge of the hill above, and in clumps upon the fertile slopesof the side of the little valley, the young larches rose, newlyclothed in that light and brilliant foliage which darkens almostbefore spring gives place to summer.
They found Lady Mary in the drawing-room; the sunshine streamedtowards her through the golden rain of a _planta-genista_, which stoodon a table in the western corner of the bow window. She was lookingout over the south terrace, and the valley and the river, just asSarah had said.
He was shocked at her pallor, which was accentuated by her blackdress; her sapphire blue eyes looked unnaturally large and clear; thelittle white hands clasped in her lap were too slender; a few silverthreads glistened in the soft, brown hair. Above all, the hopelessexpression of the sad and gentle face went to John's heart.
_Was_ the doctor the only man in the world who had the courage tofight her battles for this fading, grieving woman who had been thelovely Mary Setoun; whom John remembered so careless, so laughing, soinnocently gay?
He was relieved that she could smile as he approached to greet her.
"I did not guess you would come by the early train," she said, in gladtones. "But, oh--you must have walked all the way from Brawnton! Whatwill James Coachman say?"
"I wanted a walk," said John, "and I knew you would send to meet me ifI let you know. My luggage is at the station. James Coachman, as youcall him, can fetch that whenever he will."
"And I have come to say good-bye," said Sarah, forlornly.
She watched with jealous eyes their greeting, and Lady Mary's obviouspleasure in John's arrival, and half-oblivion of her own familiarlittle presence.
When Peter had first gone to school, his mother in her loneliness hadalmost made a _confidante_ of little Sarah, the odd, intelligent childwho followed her about so faithfully, and listened so eagerly to thosedreamy, half-uttered confidences. She knew that Lady Mary wept becauseher boy had left her; but she understood also that when Petercame home for the holidays he brought little joy to his mother. Aself-possessed stripling now walked about the old house, and laid downthe law to his mamma--instead of that chubby creature in petticoatswho had once been Peter.
Lady Mary had dwelt on the far-off days of Peter's babyhood verytenderly when she was alone with little Sarah, who sat and nursed herdoll, and liked very much to listen; she often felt awed, as thoughsome one had died; but she did not connect the story much with thePeter of every day, who went fishing and said girls were rather anuisance.
Sarah, too, had had her troubles. She was periodically banished todistant schools by a mother who disliked romping and hoydenish littlegirls, as much as she doted on fat and wheezing lap-dogs. But as herfather, on the other hand, resented her banishment from home almost assincerely as Sarah herself, she was also periodically sent for to takeup her residence once more beneath the parental roof. Thus her lifewas full of change and uncertainty; but, through it all, her devotionto Lady Mary never wavered.
She looked at her now with a melancholy air which sat oddly upon herbright, comical face, and which was intended to draw attention to thepathetic fact of her own impending departure.
"I only came to say good-bye," said Sarah, in slightly injured tones.
"Ah! by-the-by, and I have promised not to intrude on the parting,"said John, with twinkling eyes.
"It is not an eternal farewell," said Lady Mary, drawing Sarah kindlytowards her.
"It may be for _years_," said Sarah, rather offended. "My auntElizabeth is as good as adopting me. Mamma said I was very lucky, andI believe she is glad to be rid of me. But papa says he shall come andsee me in London. Aunt Elizabeth is going to take me to Paris and toScotland, and abroad every winter."
"Oh, Sarah, how you will be changed when you come back!" said LadyMary; and she laughed a little, with a hand on Sarah's shoulder; butSarah knew that Lady Mary was not thinking very much about her, allthe same.
"There is no fresh news, John?" she asked.
"Nothing since my last telegram," he answered. "But I have arrangedwith the Exchange Telegraph Company to wire me anything of importanceduring my stay here."
"You are always so good," she said.
Then he took pity on Sarah's impatience, and left the littleworshipper to the interview with her idol which she so earnestlydesired.
"I will go and pay my respects to my cousins," said John.
But the banqueting-hall was deserted, and gaps in the row of clogs andgoloshes suggested that the old ladies were taking a morning stroll.They had not thought it proper to drive, save in a close carriage,since their brother's death; and on such a warm day of spring weathera close carriage was not inviting to country-bred people.
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