Peter's Mother

by Mrs. Henry De La Pasture

  CHAPTER XI

  Lady Mary came down the oak staircase singing. The white draperies ofher summer gown trailed softly on the wide steps, and in her hands shecarried a quantity of roses. A black ribbon was bound about her waist,and seemed only to emphasize the slenderness of her form. Her brownhair was waved loosely above her brow; it was not much less abundant,though much less bright, than in her girlhood. The freshness of youthhad gone for ever; but her loveliness had depended less upon thatradiant colouring which had once been hers than upon her clear-cutfeatures, and exquisitely shaped head and throat. Her blue eyes lookedforth from a face white and delicate as a shell cameo, beneath finelypencilled brows; but they shone now with a new hopefulness--a timidexpectancy of happiness; they were no longer pensive and downcast asPeter had known them best.

  The future had been shrouded by a heavy mist of hopelessnessalways--for Lady Mary. But the fog had lifted, and a fair landscapelay before her. Not bright, alas! with the brightness and the promiseof the morning-time; but yet--there are sunny afternoons; and thelandscape was bright still, though long shadows from the past fellacross it.

  Peter saw only that his mother, for some extraordinary reason, lookedmany years younger than when he had left her, and that she hadexchanged her customary dull, old-fashioned garb for a beautiful andbecoming dress. He gave an involuntary start, and immediately sheperceived him.

  She stretched out her arms to him with a cry that rang through therafters of the hall. The roses were scattered.

  "My boy! O God, my darling boy!"

  In the space of a flash--a second--Lady Mary had seen and understood.Her arms were round him, and her face hidden upon his empty sleeve.She was as still as death. Peter stooped his head and laid his cheekagainst her hair; he felt for one fleeting moment that he had neverknown before how much he loved his mother.

  "Forgive me for keeping it dark, mother," he whispered presently; "butI knew you'd think I was dying, or something, if I told you. It had tobe done, and I don't care--much--now; one gets used to anything. Myaunts nearly had a fit when I came in; but I knew _you'd_ be toothankful to get me home safe and sound, to make a fuss over what can'tbe helped. It's--it's just the fortune of war."

  "Oh, if I could meet the man who did it!" she cried, with fire in herblue eyes.

  "It wasn't a man; it was a gun," said Peter. "Let's forget it. Isay--doesn't it feel rummy to be at home again?"

  "But you have come back a man, Peter. Not a boy at all," said LadyMary, laughing through her tears. "Do let me look at you. You must besix feet three, surely."

  "Barely six feet one in my boots," said Peter, reprovingly.

  "And you have a moustache--more or less."

  "Of course I have a moustache," said Peter, gravely stroking it. Hemechanically replaced his eyeglass.

  Lady Mary laughed till she cried.

  "Do forgive me, darling. But oh, Peter, it seems so strange. My boygrown into a tall gentleman with an eyeglass. Nothing has happened toyour eye?" she cried, in sudden anxiety.

  "No, no; I am just a little short-sighted, that is all," he mumbled,rather awkwardly.

  He found it difficult to explain that he had travelled home with adistinguished man who had captivated his youthful fancy, and causedhim to fall into a fit of hero-worship, and to imitate his idol asclosely as possible. Hence the eyeglass, and a few harmless mannerismswhich temporarily distinguished Peter, and astonished his previousacquaintance.

  But there was something else in Peter's manner, too, for the moment.A new tenderness, which peeped through his old armour of sulkyindifference; the chill armour of his boyhood, which had grownsomething too strait and narrow for him even now, and from which hewould doubtless presently emerge altogether--but not yet.

  Though Lady Mary laughed, she was trembling and shaken with emotion.Peter came to the sofa and knelt beside her there, and she took hishand in both hers, and laid her face upon it, and they were very stillfor a few moments.

  "Mother dear," said Peter presently, without looking at her, "cominghome like this, and not finding my father here, makes me _realize_ forthe first time--though it's all so long ago--what's happened."

  "My poor boy!"

  "Poor mother! You must have been terribly lonely all this time I'vebeen away."

  "I've longed for your return, my darling," said Lady Mary.

  Her tone was embarrassed, but Peter did not notice that.

  "You see--I went away a boy, but I've come back a man, as you saidjust now," said Peter.

  "You're still very young, my darling--not one-and-twenty," she saidfondly.

  "I'm older than my age; and I've been through a lot; more than you'dthink, all this time I've been away. I dare say it hasn't seemed solong to you, who've had no experiences to go through," he said simply.

  She kissed him silently.

  "Now just listen, mother dear," said Peter, firmly. "I made up my mindto say something to you the very first minute I saw you, and it's gotto be said. I'm sorry I used to be such a beast to you--there."

  "Oh, Peter!"

  "I dare say," said Peter, "that it's all this rough time in SouthAfrica that's made me feel what a fool I used to make of myself, whenI was a discontented ass of a boy; that, or being ill, or something,used to--make one think a bit. And that's why I made up my mind totell you. I know I used to disappoint you horribly, and be bored byyour devotion, and all that. But you'll see," said Peter, decidedly,"that I mean to be different now; and you'll forgive me, won't you?"

  "My darling, I forgave you long ago--if there was anything toforgive," she cried,

  "You know there was," said Peter; and he sounded like the boy Peteragain, now that she could not see his face. "Well, my soldiering'sdone for." A faint note of regret sounded in his voice. "I had a goodbout, so I suppose I oughtn't to complain; but I had hoped--however,it's all for the best. And there's no doubt," said Peter, "that myduty lies here now. In a very few months I shall be my own master, andI mean to keep everything going here exactly as it was in my father'stime. You shall devote yourself to me, and I'll devote myself toBarracombe; and we'll just settle down into all the old ways. Only itwill be me instead of my father--that's all."

  "You instead of your father--that's all," echoed Lady Mary. She feltas though her mind had suddenly become a blank.

  "I used to rebel against poor papa," said Peter, remorsefully. "Butnow I look back, I know he was just the kind of man I should like tobe."

  She kissed his hand in silence. Her face was hidden.

  "I want you--and my aunts, to feel that, though I am young andinexperienced, and all that," said Peter, tenderly, "there are to beno changes."

  "But, Peter," said his mother, rather tremulously, "there are--sureto be--changes. You will want to marry, sooner or later. In yourposition, you are almost bound to marry."

  "Oh, of course," said Peter. He released his hand gently, in order tostroke the cherished moustache. "But I shall put off the evil day aslong as possible, like my father did."

  "I see," said Lady Mary. She smiled faintly.

  "And when it _does_ arrive," said Peter, "my wife will just have tounderstand that she comes second. I've no notion of being led by thenose by any woman, particularly a young woman. I'm sure my fathernever dreamt of putting his sisters on one side, or turning them outof their place, when he married _you_, did he?"

  "Never," said Lady Mary.

  "Of course they were snappish at times. I suppose all old peopleget like that. But, on the whole, you managed to jog along prettycomfortably, didn't you?"

  "Oh yes," said Lady Mary. "We jogged along pretty comfortably."

  "Then don't you see how snug we shall be?" said Peter, triumphantly."I can tell you a fellow learns to appreciate home when he has beenwithout one, so to speak, for over two years. And home wouldn't behome without you, mother dear."

  Lady Mary sank suddenly back among the cushions. Her feelings weredivided between dismay and self-reproach. Yet she was faintly amusedtoo--amused at Peter and herself. H
er boy had returned to her withsentiments that were surely all that a mother could desire; andyet--yet she felt instinctively that Peter was Peter still; thathis thoughts were not her thoughts, nor his ways her ways. Then theself-reproach began to predominate in Lady Mary's mind. How could shecriticize her boy, her darling, who had proved himself a son to beproud of, and who had come back to her with a heart so full of loveand loyalty?

  "And _you_ couldn't live without _me_, could you?" said Peter,affectionately; and he laughed. "I suppose you meant to go into thatlittle, damp, tumble-down Dower House, and watch over me from there;now didn't you, mummy?"

  "I--I thought, when you came of age," faltered Lady Mary, "that Ishould give up Barracombe House to you, naturally. I could come andstay with you sometimes--whether you were married or not, you know.And--and, of course, the Dower House _does_ belong to me."

  "I won't hear of your going there," said Peter, stoutly, "whether I'mmarried or not. It's a beastly place."

  "It's very picturesque," said Lady Mary, guiltily; "and I--I wasn'tthinking of living there all the year round."

  "Why, where on earth else could you have gone?" he demanded, regardingher with astonishment through the eyeglass.

  "There are several places--London," she faltered.

  "London!" said Peter; "but my father had a perfect horror of London.He wouldn't have liked it at all."

  "He belonged--to the old school," said Lady Mary, meekly; "toyounger people, perhaps--an occasional change might be pleasant andprofitable."

  "Oh! to _younger_ people," said Peter, in mollified tones. "I don'tsay I shall _never_ run up to London. I dare say I shall be obliged,now and then, on business. Not often though. I hate absenteelandlords, as my father did."

  "Travelling is said to open the mind," murmured Lady Mary, weaklypursuing her argument, as she supposed it to be.

  "I've seen enough of the world now to last me a lifetime," said Peter,in sublime unconsciousness that any fate but his own could be inquestion.

  "I didn't think you would have changed so much as this, Peter," shesaid, rather dismally. "You used to find this place so dull."

  "I know I used," Peter agreed; "but oh, mother, if you knew how sickI've been now and then with longing to get back to it! I made up mymind a thousand times how it should all be when I came home again; andthat you and me would be everything in the world to each other, as youused to wish when I was a selfish boy, thinking only of gettingaway and being independent. I'm afraid I used to be rather selfish,mother?"

  "Perhaps you were--a little," said Lady Mary.

  "You will never have to complain of _that_ again," said Peter.

  She looked at him with a faint, pathetic smile.

  "I shall take care of you, and look after you, just as my father usedto do," said Peter. "Now you rest quietly here"--and he gently laidher down among the cushions on the sofa--"whilst I take a look roundthe old place."

  "Let me come with you, darling."

  "Good heavens, no! I should tire you to death. My father never likedyou to go climbing about."

  "I am much more active than I used to be," said Lady Mary.

  "No, no; you must lie down, you look quite pale." Peter's voice tookan authoritative note, which came very naturally to him. "The suddenjoy of my return has been too much for you, poor old mum."

  He leant over her fondly, and kissed the sweet, pale face, and thenregarded her in a curious, doubtful manner.

  "You're changed, mother. I can't think what it is. Isn't your hairdone differently--or something?"

  Poor Lady Mary lifted both hands to her head, and looked at him withsomething like alarm in her blue eyes.

  "Is it? Perhaps it is," she faltered. "Don't you like it, Peter?"

  "I like the old way best," said Peter.

  "But this is so much more becoming, Peter."

  "A fellow doesn't care," said Peter, loftily, "whether his mother'shair is becoming or not. He likes to see her always the same as whenhe was a little chap."

  "It is--sweet of you, to have such a thought," murmured Lady Mary. Shetook her courage in both hands. "But the other way is out of fashion,Peter."

  "Why, mother, you never used to follow the fashions before I wentaway; you won't begin now, at your age, will you?"

  "_At my age_" repeated Lady Mary, blankly. Then she looked at him withthat wondering, pathetic smile, which seemed to have replaced already,since Peter came home, the joyousness which had timidly stolen backfrom her vanished youth. "At my age!" said Lady Mary; "you are notvery complimentary, Peter."

  "You don't expect a fellow to pay compliments to his mother," saidPeter, staring at her. "Why, mother, what has come to you? Andbesides--"

  "Besides?"

  "I'm sure papa hated compliments, and all that sort of rot," Peterblurted out, in boyish fashion. "Don't you remember how fond he was ofquoting, 'Praise to the face is open disgrace'?"

  The late Sir Timothy, like many middle-class people, had taken acompliment almost as a personal offence; and regarded the utterer,however gracious or sincere, with suspicion. Neither had the squirehimself erred on the side of flattering his fellow-creatures.

  "Oh yes, I remember," said Lady Mary; and she rose from the sofa.

  "Why, what's the matter?" asked Peter. "I haven't vexed you, have I?"

  She turned impetuously and threw her arms round him as he stood by thehearth, gazing down upon her in bewilderment.

  "Vexed with my boy, my darling, my only son, on the very day when Godhas given him back to me?" she cried passionately. "My poor woundedboy, my hero! Oh no, no! But I want only love from you to-day, and noreproaches, Peter."

  "Why, I wasn't dreaming of reproaching you, mother." He hesitated."Only you're a bit different from what I expected--that's all."

  "Have I disappointed you?"

  "No, no! Only I--well, I thought I might find you changed, but in adifferent way," he said, half apologetically. "Perhaps older, youknow, or--or sadder."

  Lady Mary's white face flushed scarlet from brow to chin; but Peter,occupied with his monocle, observed nothing.

  "I'd prepared myself for that," he said, "and to find you all inblack. And--"

  "I threw off my mourning," she murmured, "the very day I heard youwere coming home." She paused, and added hurriedly, "It was verythoughtless. I'm sorry; I ought to have thought of your feelings, mydarling."

  "Aunt Isabella has never changed hers, has she?" said Peter.

  "Aunt Isabella is a good deal more conventional than I am; and a greatmany years older," said Lady Mary, tremulously.

  "I don't see what that has to do with it," said Peter.

  She turned away, and began to gather up her scattered roses. A fewmoments since the roses had been less than nothing to her. What wereroses, what was anything, compared to Peter? Now they crept back intotheir own little place in creation; their beauty and fragrance dumblyconveyed a subtle comfort to her soul, as she lovingly laid oneagainst another, until a glowing bouquet of coppery golden hue wasformed. She lifted an ewer from the old dresser, and poured water intoa great silver goblet, wherein she plunged the stalks of her roses.Why should they be left to fade because Peter had come home?

  "You remember these?" she said, "from the great climber round mybedroom window? I leant out and cut them--little thinking--"

  Peter signified a gloomy assent. He stood before the chimneypiecewatching his mother, but not offering to help her; rather as thoughundecided as to what his next words ought to be.

  "Peter, darling, it's so funny to see you standing there, so tall, andso changed--" But though it was so funny the tears were dropping fromher blue eyes, which filled and overflowed like a child's, withoutpainful effort or grimaces. "You--you remind me so of your father,"she said, almost involuntarily.

  "I'm glad I'm like him," said Peter.

  She sighed. "How I used to wish you were a little tiny bit like metoo!"

  "But I'm not, am I?"

  "No, you're not. Not one tiny bit," she answered wistfully.
"But youdo love me, Peter?"

  "Haven't I proved I love you?" said Peter; and she perceived thathis feelings were hurt. "Coming back, and--and thinking only of you,and--and of never leaving you any more. Why, mother"--for in an agonyof love and remorse she was clinging to him and sobbing, with her facepressed against his empty sleeve--"why, mother," Peter repeated, insoftened tones, "of course I love you."

  The drawing-room door was cautiously opened, and Peter's aunts cameinto the hall on tiptoe, followed by the canon.

  "Ah, I thought so," said Lady Belstone, in the self-congratulatorytones of the successful prophet, "it has been too much for poor Mary.She has been overcome by the joy of dear Peter's return."