Peter's Mother

by Mrs. Henry De La Pasture

  CHAPTER IX

  The new moon brightened above the rim of the opposite hill, andtouched the river below with silver reflections. On the grass bankssloping away beneath the terrace gardens, sheets of bluebells shonealmost whitely on the grass. The silent house rose against thedark woods, whitened also here and there by the blossom of wildcherry-trees.

  Lady Mary stepped from the open French windows of the drawing-roominto the still, scented air of the April night. She stood leaningagainst the stone balcony, and gazing at the wonderful panorama ofthe valley and overlapping hills; where the little river threaded itsuntroubled course between daisied meadows and old orchards and redcrumbling banks.

  A broad-shouldered figure appeared in the window, and a man's stepcrunched the gravel of the path which Lady Mary had crossed.

  "For once I have escaped, you see," she said, without turning round."They will not venture into the night air. Sometimes I think they willdrive me mad--Isabella and Georgina."

  "Mary!" cried a shrill voice from the drawing-room, "how can you be soimprudent! John, how can you allow her!"

  John stepped back to the window. "It is very mild," he said. "LadyMary likes the air."

  There was a note of authority in his tone which somehow impressed LadyBelstone, who withdrew, muttering to herself, into the warm lamplightof the drawing-room.

  Perhaps the two old ladies were to be pitied, too, as they sattogether, but forlorn, sincerely shocked and uneasy at theirsister-in-law's behaviour.

  "Dear Timothy not dead three months, and she sitting out there in thenight air, as he would never have permitted, talking and laughing;yes, I actually hear her laughing--with John."

  "There is no telling what she may do _now_," said Miss Crewys,gloomily.

  "I declare it is a judgment, Georgina. Why did Timothy choose to trusta perfect stranger--even though John is a cousin--with the care of hiswife and son, and his estate, rather than his own sisters?"

  "It was a gentleman's work," said Miss Crewys.

  "Gentleman's fiddlesticks! Couldn't old Crawley have done it? Ishould hope he is as good a lawyer as young John any day," said LadyBelstone, tossing her head. "But I have often noticed that people willtrust any chance stranger with the property they leave behind, ratherthan those they know best."

  "Isabella," said Miss Crewys, "blame not the dead, and especially on amoonlight night. It makes my blood run cold."

  "I am blaming nobody, Georgina; but I will say that if poor Timothythought proper to leave everything else in the hands of young John, hemight have considered that you and I had a better right to the DowerHouse than poor dear Mary, who, of course, must live with her son."

  "I am far from wishing or intending to leave my home here, Isabella,"said Miss Crewys. "It is very different in your case. You forfeitedthe position of daughter of the house when you married. But I havealways occupied my old place, and my old room."

  This was a sore subject. On Lady Belstone's return as a widow, to thehome of her fathers, she had been torn with anxiety and indecisionregarding her choice of a sleeping apartment. Sentiment dictated herreturn to her former bedroom; but she was convinced that the marriedstate required a domicile on the first floor. Etiquette prevailed,and she descended; but the eighty-year-old legs of Miss Crewys stillclimbed the nursery staircase, and she revenged herself for herinferior status by insisting, in defiance of old associations, thather maid should occupy the room next to her own, which her sister hadabandoned.

  "For my part, I can sleep in one room as well as another, provided itbe comfortable and _appropriate_," said Lady Belstone, with dignity."There are very pleasant rooms in the Dower House, and our great-auntsmanaged to live there in comfort, and yet keep an eye on their nephewhere, as I have always been told. I don't know why we should object todoing the same. You have never tried being mistress of your own house,Georgina, but I can assure you it has its advantages; and I found themout as a married woman."

  "A married woman has her husband to look after her," said Miss Crewys."It is very different for a widow."

  "You are for ever throwing my widowhood in my teeth, Georgina," saidLady Belstone, plaintively. "It is not my fault that I am a widow. Idid not murder the admiral."

  "I don't say you did, Isabella," said Georgina, grimly; "but he onlysurvived his marriage six months."

  "It is nice to be silent sometimes," said Lady Mary.

  "Does that mean that I am to go away?" said John, "or merely that I amnot to speak to you?"

  She laughed a little. "Neither. It means that I am tired of beingscolded."

  "I have wondered now and then," said John, deliberately, "why you putup with it?"

  "I suppose--because I can't help it," she said, startled.

  "You are a free agent."

  "You mean that I could go away?" she said, in a low voice. "But thereis only one place I should care to go to now."

  "To South Africa?"

  "You always understand," she said gratefully.

  "Supposing this--this ghastly war should not be over as soon as we allhope," he said, rather huskily, "I could escort you myself, in a fewweeks' time, to the Cape. Or--or arrange for your going earlier ifyou desired, and if I could not get away. Probably you would getno further than Cape Town; but it might be easier for you waitingthere--than here."

  "I shall thank you, and bless you always, for thinking of it," sheinterrupted, softly; "but there is something--that I never toldanybody."

  He waited.

  "After Peter had the news of his father's death," said Lady Mary, witha sob in her throat, "you did not know that he--he telegraphed to me,from Madeira. He foresaw immediately, I suppose, whither my foolishimpulses would lead me; and he asked me--I should rather say heordered me--under no circumstances whatever to follow him out to SouthAfrica."

  John remembered the doctor's warning, and said nothing.

  "So, you see--I can't go," said Lady Mary.

  There was a pause.

  "I am bound to say," said John, presently, "that, in Peter's place, Ishould not have liked my mother, or any woman I loved, to come out tothe seat of war. He showed only a proper care for you in forbiddingit. Perhaps I am less courageous than he, in thinking more of thepresent benefit you would derive from the voyage and the change ofscene, than of the perils and discomforts which might await you, foraught we can foretell now, at the end of it. Peter certainly showedjudgment in telegraphing to you."

  "Do you really think so? That it was care for me that made him do it?"she asked. A distant doubtful joy sounded in her voice. "Somehow Inever thought of that. I remembered his old dislike of being followedabout, or taken care of, or--or spied upon, as he used to call it."

  "Boys just turning into men are often sensitive on those points," saidJohn, heedful always of the doctor's warning.

  "It is odd I did not see the telegram in that light," said poor LadyMary. "I must read it again."

  She spoke as hopefully as though she had not read it already a hundredtimes over, trying to read loving meanings, that were not there,between the curt and peremptory lines.

  "It is not odd," thought John to himself; "it is because you knew himtoo well;" and he wondered whether his explanation of Peter's actionwere charitable, or merely unscrupulous.

  But Lady Mary was not really deceived; only very grateful to the manwho was so tender of heart, so tactful of speech, as to make it seemeven faintly possible that she had misjudged her boy.

  She said to herself that parents were often unreasonable, expectingimpossibilities, in their wild desire for perfection in theiroffspring. An outsider, being unprejudiced by anxiety, could judgemore fairly. John found that the telegram, which had almost broken herheart, was reasonable and justified; nay, even that it displayed adutiful regard for her safety and comfort, of which no one but astranger could possibly have suspected Peter. She was grateful toJohn. It was a relief and joy to feel that it was she who was toblame, and not Peter, whose heart was in the right place, after all.And yet, though John was
so clever and had such an experience of humannature, it was the doctor who had put the key into his hands, whichpresently unlocked Lady Mary's confidence.

  "You mustn't think, John, that I don't understand what it will be likelater, when Peter comes of age. Of course this house will be his,and he is not the kind of young man to be tied to his mother'sapron-string. He always wanted to be independent."

  "It is human nature," said John.

  "I am not blind to his faults," said Lady Mary, humbly, "though theyall think so. It is of little use to try and hide them from you, whowill see them for yourself directly my darling comes back. I pray Godit may be soon. Of course he is spoilt; but I am to blame, because Imade him my idol."

  "An only son is always more or less spoilt," said John. He rememberedhis own boyhood, and smiled sardonically in the darkness. "He willgrow out of it. He will come back a man after this experience."

  "Yes, yes, and he will want to live his life, and I--I shall have tolearn to do without him, I know," she said. "I must learn while he isaway to--to depend on myself. It is not likely that--that a womanof my age should have much in common with a manly boy like Peter.Sometimes I wonder whether I really understand my boy at all."

  "It is my belief," said John, "that no generation is in perfect touchwith another. Each stands on a different rung of the ladder of Time.You may stoop to lend a helping hand to the younger, or reach upwardsto take a farewell of the older. But there must be a looking down ora looking up. No face-to-face talk is possible except upon the samelevel. No real and true comradeship. The very word implies a marchingtogether, under the same circumstances, to a common goal; and how canwe, who have to be the commanding officers of the young, be their truecompanions?" he said, lightly and cheerfully.

  "I dare say I have expected impossibilities," said Lady Mary, asthough reproaching herself. "It comforts me to think so. But I havehad time to reflect on many things since--February." She paused. "Idon't deny I have tried to make plans for the future. But there arethese days to be lived through first--until he comes home."

  "I was going to propose," said John, "that, if agreeable to you, Ishould spend my summer and autumn holiday here, instead of going, asusual, to Switzerland."

  "I should be only too glad," she said, in tones of awakened interest."But surely--it would be very dull for you?"

  "Not at all. There is a great deal to be done, and in accordance withmy trust I am bound to set about it," said John. "I propose to spendthe next few days in examining the reports of the surveys that havealready been made, and in judging of their accuracy for myself. When Ireturn here later, I could have the work begun, and then for some timeI could superintend matters personally, which is always a good thing."

  "Do you mean--the woods?" she asked. "I know they have been neglected.Sir Timothy would never have a tree cut down; but they are so wild andbeautiful."

  "There are hundreds of pounds' worth of timber perishing for want ofattention. I am responsible for it all until Peter comes of age," saidJohn, "as I am for the rest of his inheritance. It is part of my trustto hand over to him his house and property in the best order I can,according to my own judgment. I know something of forestry," he added,simply; "you know I was not bred a Cockney. I was to have beena Hertfordshire squire, on a small scale, had not circumstancesnecessitated the letting of my father's house when he died."

  "But it will be yours again some day?"

  "No," said John, quietly; "it had to be sold--afterwards."

  He gave no further explanation, but Lady Mary recollected instantlythe abuse that had been showered on his mother, by her sisters-in-law,when John was reported to have sacrificed his patrimony to pay herdebts.

  "I rather agree with you about the woods," she said. "It vexes mealways to see a beautiful young tree, that should be straight andstrong, turned into a twisted dwarf, in the shade of the overgrowthand the overcrowding. The woodman will be delighted; he is alwaysgrumbling."

  "It is not only the woods. There is the house."

  "I suppose it wants repairing?" said Lady Mary. "Hadn't that better beput off till Peter comes home?"

  "I cannot neglect my trust," said John, gravely; "besides," he added,"the state of the roof is simply appalling. Many of the beams areactually rotten. Then there are the drains; they are on a system thatshould not be tolerated in these days. Nothing has been done for oversixty years, and I can hardly say how long before."

  "Won't it all cost a great deal of money?" said Lady Mary.

  "A good deal; but there is a very large sum of money lying idle,which, as the will directs, may be applied to the general improvementof the house and estate during Peter's minority; but over which he isto have no control, should it remain unspent, until he comes of age.That is to say, it will then--or what is left of it--be invested withthe rest of his capital, which is all strictly tied up. So, as oldCrawley says, it will relieve Peter's income in the future, if wespend what is necessary now, according to our powers, in putting hishouse and estate in order. It would have to be done sooner or later,most assuredly. Sir Timothy, as you must know," said John, gently,"did not spend above a third of his actual income; and, so far as Mr.Crawley knows, spent nothing at all on repairs, beyond jobs to thevillage carpenter and mason."

  "I did not know," said Lady Mary. "He always told me we were verybadly off--for our position. I know nothing of business. I did notattend much to Mr. Crawley's explanations at the time."

  "You were unable to attend to him then," said John; "but now, I think,you should understand the exact position of affairs. Surely my cousinsmust have talked it over?"

  "Isabella and Georgina never talk business before me. You forget I amstill a child in their eyes," she said, smiling. "I gathered that theywere disappointed poor Timothy had left them nothing, and that theythought I had too much; that is all."

  "Their way of looking at it is scarcely in accordance with justice,"said John, shrugging his shoulders. "They each have ten thousandpounds left to them by their father in settlement. This was to returnto the estate if they died unmarried or childless. You have twothousand a year and the Dower House for your life; but you forfeitboth if you re-marry."

  "Of course," said Lady Mary, indifferently. "I suppose that is theusual thing?"

  "Not quite, especially when your personal property is so small."

  "I didn't know I had any personal property."

  "About five hundred pounds a year; perhaps a little more."

  "From the Setouns!" she cried.

  "From your father. Surely you must have known?"

  Lady Mary was silent a moment. "No; I didn't know," she saidpresently. "It doesn't matter now, but Timothy never told me. Ithought I hadn't a farthing in the world. He never mentioned moneymatters to me at all." Then she laughed faintly. "I could have livedall by myself in a cottage in Scotland, without being beholden toanybody--on five hundred pounds a year, couldn't I?"

  "There is no reason you should not have a cottage in Scotland now, ifyou fancy one," said John, cheerfully.

  "The only memories I have in the world, outside my life in this place,are of my childhood at home," she said.

  John suddenly realized how very, very limited her experiences hadbeen, and wondered less at the almost childish simplicity whichcharacterized her, and which in no way marred her natural graciousnessand dignity. Lady Mary did not observe his silence, because her ownthoughts were busy with a scene which memory had painted for her, andfar away from the moonlit valley of the Youle. She saw a tall, narrow,turreted building against a ruddy sunset sky; a bare ridge of hillscrowned sparsely with ragged Scotch firs; a sea of heather which hadseemed boundless to a childish imagination.

  "I could not go back to Scotland now," she said, with that littlewistful-sounding, patient sob which moved John to such pity that hecould scarce contain himself; "but some day, when I am free--whennobody wants me."

  "London is the only place worth living in just now, whilst we are insuch terrible anxiety," he said boldly. "At least there are
the papersand telegrams all day long, and none of this dreary, long waitingbetween the posts; and there are other things--to distract one'sattention, and keep up one's courage."

  "I do not know what Isabella and Georgina would say," said Lady Mary.

  "But you--would you not care to come?"

  "Oh!" she said, half sobbing, "it is because I am afraid of caring toomuch. Life seems to call so loudly to me now and then; as though Iwere tired of sitting alone, and looking up the valley and down thevalley. I know it all by heart. It would be fresh life; the stir, themovement; other people, fresh ideas, beautiful new things to see. But,indeed, you must not tempt me." There was an accent of yearning in hertone, a hint of eager anticipation, as of a good time coming; a dreampostponed, which she would nevertheless be willing one day to enjoy."I mustn't go anywhere; I couldn't--until my boy comes home, if heever comes home," she added, under her breath.

  "But when he comes home safe and sound, as please God he may," saidJohn, cheerfully, "why, then you have a great deal of lost time tomake up."

  "Ah, yes!" said Lady Mary, and again that wistful note of longingsounded. "I have thought sometimes I would not like to die before Ihave seen my birthplace once more. And there is--_Italy_," she said,as though the one word conveyed every vision of earthly beauty whichmortal could desire to behold--as, indeed, it does. And again sheadded, "But I don't know what my sisters-in-law would say. It would beagainst all the traditions."

  "Surely Lady Belstone, at least, must be less absurdly narrow-minded,"said John, almost impatiently.

  "Shall I tell you the history of her marriage?" said Lady Mary.

  Her pretty laugh rang out softly in the darkness, and thrilledJohn's heart, and shocked yet further the old ladies who sat within,straining their ears for the sound of returning footsteps.

  "It took place about forty years ago or less. A cousin of hermother's, Sir William Belstone, came to spend a few days here. Ibelieve the poor man invited himself, because he happened to bestaying in the neighbourhood. He was a gallant old sailor, and verypolite to both his cousins; and one day Isabella interpreted hiscompliments into a proposal of marriage. Georgina has given me tounderstand that no one was ever more astounded and terrified than theadmiral when he found himself engaged to Isabella. But apparently hewas a chivalrous old gentleman, and would not disappoint her. It isreally rather a sad little story, because he died of heart diseasevery soon after the marriage. Old Mrs. Ash, the housekeeper, alwaysdeclares her mistress came home even more old-maidish in her ways thanshe went away, and that she quarrelled with the poor admiral frommorning till night. Perhaps that is why she has never lightened hergarb of woe. And she makes my life a burden to me because I won't weara cap. Ah! how heartless it all sounds, and yet how ridiculous! DearCousin John, haven't I bored you? Let us go in."

  With characteristic energy John Crewys set in hand the repairs whichhe had declared to be so necessary.

  The late squire had apparently been as well aware of the neglectedstate of his ancestral halls as of his tangled and overgrown woods;but he had also, it seemed, been unable to make up his mind to takeany steps towards amending the condition of either--or to part withhis ever-increasing balance at his bankers'.

  Sir Timothy had carried both his obstinacy and his dullness into hisbusiness affairs.

  The family solicitor, Mr. Crawley, backed up the new administratorwith all his might.

  "Over sixty thousand pounds uninvested, and lying idle at the bank,"he said, lifting his hands and eyes, "and one long, miserablegrumbling over the expense of keeping up Barracombe. One good tenantafter another lost because the landlord would keep nothing in repair;gardener after gardener leaving for want of a shilling increase inweekly wages. In case Sir Peter should turn out to resemble hisfather, we had best not let the grass grow under our feet, Mr.Crewys," said the shrewd gentleman, chuckling, "but take fulladvantage of the powers entrusted to you for the next two years anda quarter. Sir Peter, luckily, does not come of age until October,1902."

  "That is just what I intend to do," said John.

  "Odd, isn't it," said the lawyer, confidentially, "how often a manwill put unlimited power into the hands of a comparative stranger, andleave his own son tied hand and foot? Not a penny of all this capitalwill Sir Peter ever have the handling of. Perhaps a good job too.Oh, dear! when I look at the state of his affairs in general, I feelpositively guilty, and ashamed to have had even the nominal managementof them. But what could a man do under the circumstances? He paid formy advice, and then acted directly contrary to it, and thought he haddone a clever thing, and outwitted his own lawyer. But now we shallget things a bit straight, I hope. What about buying Speccot Farm, Mr.Crewys? It's been our Naboth's vineyard for many a day; but we haggledover the price, and couldn't make up our minds to give what the farmerwants. He'll have to sell in the end, you know; but I suppose he couldhold out a few years longer if we don't give way."

  "He's been to me already," said John. "The price he asked is no doubta bit above its proper value; but it's accommodation land, and itwould be disappointing if it slipped through our fingers. I propose tooffer him pretty nearly what he asks."

  "He'll take it," said Mr. Crawley, with satisfaction. "I could nevermake Sir Timothy see that it wouldn't pay the fellow to turn outunless he got something over and above the value of his mortgages."

  "The next thing I want you to arrange is the purchase of thosetwenty acres of rough pasture and gorse, right in the centre of theproperty," said John, "rented by the man who lives outside Youlestone,at what they call Pott's farm, for his wretched, half-starved beaststo graze upon. He's saved us the trouble of exterminating the rabbitsthere, I notice."

  "He's an inveterate poacher. A good thing to give him no furtherexcuse to hang about the place. What do you propose to do?"

  "Compensate him, burn the gorse, cut the bracken, and plant larch.There are enough picturesque commons on the top of the hill, where thesoil is poor, and land is cheap. We don't want them in the valley.Now I propose to give our minds to the restoration of the house, thedrains, the stables, and the home farm. Here are my estimates."

  Though Mr. Crawley was so loyal a supporter of the regent ofBarracombe, yet John's projected improvements were far toothorough-going to gain the approval of the pottering old retainers ofthe Crewys family, though they were unable to question his knowledgeor his judgment.

  "I telled 'im tu du things by the littles," said the woodman, who waskept at work marking trees and saplings as he had never worked before;though John was generous of help, and liberal of pay. "But lard, hebain't one tu covet nobody's gude advice. I was vair terrified tu zeearl he knowed about the drees. The squoire 'ee wur like a babe unbarnbeside 'un. He lukes me straight in the eyes, and 'Luke,' sezzee, 'us'a' got tu git the place in vamous arder vur young Zur Peter,' sezzee,'An' I be responsible, and danged but what 'a'll du't,' 'ee zays. An'I touched my yead, zo, and I zays, 'Very gude, zur,' 'a zays. 'An' zo'twill be, yu may depend on't.'"

  Perhaps the unwonted stir and bustle, the coming and going of JohnCrewys, the confusion of workmen, the novel interest of renovating andrestoring the old house, helped to brace and fortify Lady Mary duringthe months which followed; months, nevertheless, of suspense andanxiety, which reduced her almost to a shadow of her former self.

  For Peter's career in South Africa proved an adventurous one.

  He had the good luck to distinguish himself in a skirmish almostimmediately after his arrival, and to win not only the approval of hisnoble relative and commander, but his commission. His next exploit,however, ended rather disastrously, and Peter found himself a prisonerin the now historic bird-cage at Pretoria, where he spent a dreary,restless, and perhaps not wholly unprofitable time, in the society ofmen greatly his superior in soldierly and other qualities.

  John feared that his mother's resolution not to follow her boy mustinevitably be broken when the news of his capture reached Barracombe;but perhaps Peter's letters had repeated the peremptory injunctionsof his telegra
m, for she never proposed to take the journey to SouthAfrica.

  The wave of relief and thankfulness that swept over the country, whenthe release of the imprisoned officers became known, restored not alittle of Lady Mary's natural courage and spirits. She became morehopeful about her son, and more interested daily in the beautifyingand restoration of his house.

  She said little in her letters to Peter of the work at Barracombe, forJohn advised her that the boy would probably hardly understand thenecessity for it, and she herself was doubtful of Peter's approvaleven if he had understood. She had too much intelligence to bedoubtful of John's wisdom, or of Mr. Crawley's zeal for his interest.

  The letters she received were few and scanty, for Peter was but a poorcorrespondent, and he made little comment on the explanatory letterregarding his father's will which John and Mr. Crawley thought properto send him. The solicitor was justly indignant at Sir Peter's neglectto reply to this carefully thought-out and faultlessly inditedepistle.

  "He is just a chip of the old block," said Mr. Crawley.

  But his mother divined that Peter was partly offended at his ownutter exclusion from any share of responsibility, and partly too muchoccupied to give much attention to any matter outside his soldiering.She said to herself that he was really too young to be troubledwith business; and she began to believe, as the work at Barracombeadvanced, that the results of so much planning and forethought mustplease him, after all. The consolation of working in his interests wasdelightful to her. Her days were filling almost miraculously, as itseemed to her, with new occupations, fresh hopes, and happier ideas,than the idle dreaming which was all that had hitherto been permittedto her. John desired her help, or her suggestions, at every turn, andconstantly consulted her taste. Her artistic instinct for decorationwas hardly less strong than his own, though infinitely lesscultivated. He sent her the most engrossing and delightful books torepair the omission, and he brought her plans and drawings, which hebegged her to copy for him. The days which had hung so heavily on herhands were scarcely long enough.

  The careful restoration of the banqueting-hall necessitated newcurtains and chair-covers. Lady Mary looked doubtfully at John whenthis matter had been decided, and then at the upholstery of thedrawing-rooms facing the south terrace.

  The faded magenta silk, tarnished gilded mirrors, and gold-starredwall-paper which decorated these apartments had offended her eye foryears. John laughed at her hesitation, and advised her to consult hersisters-in-law on the subject; and this settled the question.

  "They would choose bottle-green" she said, in horror; and she salvedher conscience by paying for the redecoration of the drawing-rooms outof her own pocket.

  John discovered that Lady Mary had never drawn a cheque in her life,and that Mr. Crawley's lessons in the management of her own affairsfilled her with as much awe as amusement.

  * * * * *

  So the old order changed and gave place to the new at Barracombe; andthe summer grew to winter, and winter to summer again; and Peter didnot return, as he might, with the corps in which he had the honour toserve.

  Want of energy was not one of his defects; he was a strong, hardyyoung man, a fine horseman and a good shot, and eager to gaindistinction for himself. He passed into a fresh corps of newly raisedYeomanry, and went through the Winter Campaign of 1901, from April toSeptember, without a scratch. His mother implored him to come home;but Peter's letters were contemptuous of danger. If he were to beshot, plenty of better fellows than he had been done for, he wrote;and coming home to go to Oxford, or whatever his guardian might bepleased to order him to do, was not at all in his line, when he wasreally wanted elsewhere.

  To do him justice, he had no idea how boastfully his letters read; hehad not the art of expressing himself on paper, and he was always ina hurry. The moments when he was moved by a vague affection for hishome, or his mother, were seldom the actual moments which he devotedto correspondence; and the passing ideas of the moment were all Peterknew how to convey.

  Lady Mary could not but be aware of her son's complete independence ofher, but the realization of it no longer filled her with such dismayas formerly. Her outlook upon life was widening insensibly. The youngsoldier's luck deserted him at last. Barely six weeks before thedeclaration of peace, Peter was wounded at Rooiwal. The War Office,and the account of the action in the newspapers, reported his injuriesas severe; but a telegram from Peter himself brought relief, and evenrejoicing, to Barracombe--

  "_Shot in the arm. Doing splendidly. Invalided home. Sailing as soonas doctor allows_."