CHAPTER XII
"Try my salts, dear Mary," said Miss Crewys, hastening to apply theremedies which were always to be found in her black velvet reticule.
"I blame myself," said the canon, distressfully--"I blame myself. Ishould have insisted on breaking the news to her gently."
Lady Mary smiled upon them all. "On the contrary," she said, "I wasoffering, not a moment ago, to take Peter round and show him theimprovements. We have been so much occupied with each other that hehas not had time to look round him."
"I wish he may think them improvements, my love," said Lady Belstone.
Miss Crewys, joyously scenting battle, hastened to join forces withher sister.
"We are far from criticizing any changes your dear mother may havebeen induced to make," she said; "but as your Aunt Isabella hasfrequently observed to me, what _can_ a Londoner know of landscapegardening?"
"A Londoner?" said Peter.
"Your guardian, my boy," said the canon, nervously. "He has slightlyopened out the views; that is all your good aunt is intending to say."
Peter's good aunt opened her mouth to contradict this assertionindignantly, but Lady Mary broke in with some impatience.
"I do not mean the trees. Of course the house was shut in far tooclosely by the trees at the back and sides. We wanted more air, morelight, more freedom." She drew a long breath and flung out her handsin unconscious illustration. "But there are many very necessarychanges that--that Peter will like to see," said Lady Mary, glancingalmost defiantly at the pursed-up mouths and lowered eyelids of thesisters.
Peter walked suddenly into the middle of the banqueting-hall andlooked round him.
"Why, what's come to the old place? It's--it's changed somehow. Whathave you been doing to it?" he demanded.
"Don't you--don't you like it, Peter?" faltered Lady Mary. "The roofwas not safe, you know, and had to be mended, and--and when it wasall done up, the furniture and curtains looked so dirty and ugly andinappropriate. I sent them away and brought down some of the beautifulold things that belonged to your great-grandmother, and made the hallbrighter and more livable."
Peter examined the new aspect of his domain with lowering brow.
"I don't like it at all," he announced, finally. "I hate changes."
The sisters breathed again. "So like his father!"
Their allegiance to Sir Timothy had been transferred to his heir.
"Your guardian approved," said Lady Mary.
She turned proudly away, but she could not keep the pain altogetherout of her voice. Neither would she stoop to solicit Peter's approvalbefore her rejoicing opponents.
"Mr. John Crewys is a very great connoisseur," said the canon. Hetaxed his memory for corroborative evidence, and brought out theresult with honest pride. "I believe, curiously enough, that he spendsmost of his spare time at the British Museum."
Lady Mary's lip quivered with laughter in the midst of her very realdistress and mortification.
But the argument appeared to the canon a most suitable one, and he wasfurther encouraged by Peter's reception of it.
"If my guardian approves, I suppose it's all right," said the youngman, with an effort. "My father left all that sort of thing in hishands, I understand, and he knew what he was doing. I say, where'sthat great vase of wax flowers that used to stand on the centre tableunder a glass shade?"
"Darling," said Lady Mary, "it jarred so with the whole scheme ofdecoration."
"I am taking care of that in my room, Peter," said Miss Crewys.
"And the stuffed birds, and the weasels, and the ferrets that I was sofond of when I was a little chap. You don't mean to say you've doneaway with those too?" cried Peter, wrathfully.
"They--they are in the gun-room," said Lady Mary. "It seemed sucha--such--an appropriate place for them."
"I believe," said the canon, nervously, "that stuffing is no longerconsidered decorative. After all, _why_ should we place dead animalsin our sitting-rooms?"
He looked round with the anxious smile of the would-be peacemaker.
"They were very much worm-eaten, Peter," said Lady Mary. "But if youwould like them brought back--"
Perhaps the pain in her voice penetrated even Peter's perception, forhe glanced hastily towards her.
"It doesn't matter," he said magnanimously. "If you and my guardiandecided they were rotten, there's an end of it. Of course I'd ratherhave things as they used to be; but after all this time, I expectthere's bound to be a few changes." He turned from the contemplationof the hall to face his relatives squarely, with the air of anautocrat who had decreed that the subject was at an end.
"By-the-by," said Peter, "where _is_ John Crewys? They told me he wasstopping here."
"He will be in directly," said Lady Mary, "and Sarah Hewel ought to behere presently too. She is coming to luncheon."
"Sarah!" said Peter. "I should like to see her again. Is she stillsuch a rum little toad? Always getting into scrapes, and coming to youfor comfort?"
"I think," said Lady Mary, and her blue eyes twinkled--"I think youmay be surprised to see little Sarah. She is grown up now."
"Of course," said Peter. "She's only a year younger than I am."
Lady Mary wondered why Peter's way of saying _of course_ jarred uponher so much. He had always been brusque and abrupt; it was the familyfashion. Was it because she had grown accustomed to the tactful andgentle methods of John Crewys that it seemed to have become suddenlysuch an intolerable fashion? Sir Timothy had quite honestly believedtactfulness to be a form of insincerity. He did not recognize it asthe highest outward expression of self-control. But Lady Mary, sinceshe had known John Crewys, knew also that it is consideration forthe feelings of others which causes the wise man to order his speechcarefully.
The canon shook his head when Peter stated that Miss Hewel was hisjunior by a twelvemonth.
"She might be ten years older," he said, in awe-struck tones. "I havealways heard that women were extraordinarily adaptable, but I neverrealized it before. However, to be sure, she has seen a good deal moreof the world than you have. More than most of us, though in such acomparatively short space of time. But she is one in a thousand forquickness."
"Seen more of the world than I have?" said Peter, astonished. "Why,I've been soldiering in South Africa for over two years."
"I don't think soldiering brings much worldly wisdom in its train. Ishould be rather sorry to think it did," said Lady Mary, gently. "ButSarah has been with Lady Tintern all this while."
"A very worldly woman, indeed, from all I have heard," said MissCrewys, severely.
"But a very great lady," said Lady Mary, "who knows all the famouspeople, not only in England, but in Europe. The daughter of a viceroy,and the wife of a man who was not only a peer, and a great landowner,but also a distinguished ambassador. And she has taken Saraheverywhere, and the child is an acknowledged beauty in London andParis. Lady Tintern is delighted with her, and declares she has takenthe world by storm."
"We never thought her a beauty down here," said Peter, rathercontemptuously.
"Perhaps we did not appreciate her sufficiently down here," said LadyMary, smiling.
"Why, who is she, after all?" cried Peter.
"A very beautiful and self-possessed young woman, and Lady Tintern'sniece, 'whom not to know argues yourself unknown,'" said Lady Mary,laughing outright. "John says people were actually mobbing her picturein the Academy; he could not get near it."
"I mean," said Peter, almost sulkily, "that she's only old ColonelHewel's daughter, whom we've known all our lives."
"Perhaps one is in danger of undervaluing people one has known allone's life," said Lady Mary, lightly.
Peter muttered something to the effect that he was sorry to hear Sarahhad grown up like that; but his words were lost in the tumultuousentry of Dr. Blundell, who pealed the front door bell, and rushed intothe hall, almost simultaneously.
His dark face was flushed and enthusiastic. He came straight to Peter,and held out his hand.<
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"A thousand welcomes, Sir Peter. Lady Mary, I congratulate you. I cameup in my dog-cart as fast as possible, to let you know the peopleare turning out _en masse_ to welcome you. They're assembling atthe Crewys Arms, and going to hurry up to the house in a regularprocession, band and all."
"We're proud of our young hero, you see," said the canon; and he laidhis hand affectionately on Peter's shoulder.
"You will have to say a few words to them," said Lady Mary.
"Must I?" said the hero. "Let's go out on the terrace and see what'sgoing on. We can watch them the whole way up."
He opened the door into the south drawing-rooms; and through the openwindows there floated the distant strains of the village band.
"Canon, your arm," said Lady Belstone.
Lady Mary and her son had hastened out on to the terrace.
The old ladies paused in the doorway; they were particular in suchmatters.
"I believe I take precedence, Georgina," said Lady Belstone,apologetically.
"I am far from disputing it, Isabella," said Miss Crewys, drawing backwith great dignity. "You are the elder."
"Age does not count in these matters. I take precedence, as a marriedwoman. Will you bring up the rear, Georgina, as my poor admiral wouldhave said?"
Miss Crewys bestowed a parting toss of the head upon the doctor, andfollowed her victorious sister.
The doctor laughed silently to himself, standing in the pretty shadydrawing-room; now gay with flowers, and chintz, and Dresden china.
"I wonder if she would not have been even more annoyed with mypresumption if I _had_ offered her my arm," he said to himself,amusedly, "than she is offended by my neglect to do so?"
He did not follow the others into the blinding sunshine of theterrace. He had had a long morning's work, and was hot and tired. Helooked at his watch.
"Past one o'clock; h'm! we are lucky if we get anything to eat beforehalf-past two. All the servants have run out, of course. No useringing for whisky and seltzer. All the better. But, at least, one canrest."
The pleasantness of the room refreshed his spirit. The interior of hisown house in Brawnton was not much more enticing than the exterior.The doctor had no time to devote to such matters. He sat down verywillingly in a big armchair, and enjoyed a moment's quiet in theshade; glancing through the half-closed green shutters at thebrilliant picture without.
The top level of the terrace garden was carpeted with pattern beds ofheliotrope, and lobelia, and variegated foliage. Against the faintblue-green of the opposite hill rose the grey stone urns on thepillars of the balcony; and from the urns hung trailing ivy geraniumswith pink or scarlet blossom, making splashes of colour on thebackground of grey distance. Round the pillars wound large blueclematis, and white passion-flowers.
Lady Mary stood full in the sunshine, which lent once more the goldenglory of her vanished youth to her brown hair, and the dazzle ofnew-fallen snow to her summer gown.
Close to her side, touching her, stood the young soldier; straight andtall, with uncovered head, towering above the little group.
The old sisters had parasols, and the canon wore his shovel hat; butthe doctor wasted no time in observing their manifestations of delightand excitement.
"So my beautiful lady has got her precious boy back safe and sound,save for his right arm, and doubly precious because that is missing.God bless her a thousand times!" he thought to himself. "But her sweetface looked more sorrowful than joyful when I came in. What had hebeen saying, I wonder, to make her look like that, _already_?"
John Crewys entered from the hall. "What's this I hear," he said, inglad tones--"the hero returned?"
"Ay," said the doctor. "Sir Timothy is forgotten, and Sir Peter reignsin his stead."
"Where is Lady Mary?"
The doctor drew him to the window. "There," he said grimly. "Why don'tyou go out and join her?"
"She has her son," said John, smiling.
He looked with interest at the group on the terrace; then he startedback with an exclamation of horror.
"Why, good heavens--"
"Yes," said the doctor quietly, "the poor fellow has lost his rightarm."
There was a sound of distant cheering, and the band could be heardfaintly playing the _Conquering Hero_.
"He said nothing of it," said John.
"No; he's a plucky chap, with all his faults."
"Has he so many faults?" said John.
The doctor shook his head. "I'm mistaken if he won't turn out a chipof the old block. Though he's better-looking than his father, he's gotSir Timothy's very expression."
"He's turned out a gallant soldier, anyway," said John, cheerily."Don't croak, Blundell; we'll make a man of him yet."
"Please God you may, for his mother's sake," said the doctor; and hereturned to his armchair.
John Crewys stood by the open French window, and drank in therefreshing breeze which fluttered the muslin curtains. His calm andthoughtful face was turned away from the doctor, who knew very wellwhy John's gaze was so intent upon the group without.
"Shall I warn him, or shall I let it alone?" thought Blundell. "Isuppose they have been waiting only for this. If that selfish cubobjects, as he will--I feel very sure of that--will she be weak enoughto sacrifice her happiness, or can I trust John Crewys? He looksstrong enough to take care of himself, and of her."
He looked at John's decided profile, silhouetted against the curtain,and thought of Peter's narrow face. "Weak but obstinate," he mutteredto himself. "Shrewd, suspicious eyes, but a receding chin. What chancewould the boy have against a man? A man with strength to oppose him,and brains to outwit him. None, save for the one undoubted fact--theboy holds his mother's heart in the hollow of his careless hands."
There was a tremendous burst of cheering, no longer distant, and theband played louder.
Lady Mary came hurrying across the terrace. Weeping and agitated, andhalf blinded by her tears, she stumbled over the threshold of thewindow, and almost fell into John's arms. He drew her into the shadowof the curtain.
"John," she cried; she saw no one else. "Oh, I can't bear it! Oh,Peter, Peter, my boy, my poor boy!"
The doctor, with a swift and noiseless movement, turned the handle ofthe window next him, and let himself out on to the terrace.
When John looked up he was already gone. Lady Mary did not hear theslight sound.
"Oh, John," she said, "my boy's come home--but--but--"
"I know," John said, very tenderly.
"I was afraid of breaking down before them all," she whispered. "Peterwas afraid I should break down, and I felt my weakness, and cameaway."
"To me," said John.
His heart beat strongly. He drew her more closely into his arms,deeply conscious that he held thus, for the first time, all he lovedbest in the world.
"To you," said poor Lady Mary, very simply; as though aware onlyof the rest and support that refuge offered, and not of all of itsstrangeness. "Alas! it has grown so natural to come to _you_ now."
"It will grow more natural every day," said John.
She shook her head. "There is Peter now," she said faintly. Then,looking into his face, she realized that John was not thinking ofPeter.
For a moment's space Lady Mary, too, forgot Peter. She leant againstthe broad shoulder of the man who loved her; and felt as though alltrouble, and disappointment, and doubt had slidden off her soul, andleft her only the blissful certainty of happy rest.
Then she laid her hand very gently and entreatingly on his arm.
"I will not let you go," said John. "You came to me--at last--of yourown accord, Mary."
She coloured deeply and leant away from his arm, looking up at him indistress.
"I could not help it, John," she said, very simply and naturally. "Butoh, I don't know if I can--if I ought--to come to you any more."
"What do you mean?" said John.
"I--we--have been thinking of Peter as a boy--as the boy he was whenhe went away," she said, in low, hurrying
tones; "but he has come homea man, and, in some ways, altogether different. He never used towant me; he used to think this place dull, and long to get away fromit--and from me, for that matter. But now he's--he's wounded, as youknow; maimed, my poor boy, for life; and--and he's counting on me tomake his home for him. We never thought of that. He says it wouldn'tbe home without me; and he asked my pardon for being selfish in thepast; my poor Peter! I used to fear he had such a little, cold heart;but I was all wrong, for when he was so far away he thought of me,and was sorry he hadn't loved me more. He's come home wanting to beeverything to me, as I am to be everything to him. And I should havebeen so glad, so thankful, only two years ago. Oh, have I changed somuch in two little years?"
John put her out of his arms very gently, and walked towards thewindow. His face was pale, but he still smiled, and his hazel eyeswere bright.
"You're angry, John," said Lady Mary, very sweetly and humbly. "You'vea right to be angry."
"I am not angry," he said gently. "I may be--a little--disappointed."He did not look round.
"You know I was too happy," said poor Lady Mary. She sank into achair, and covered her face with her hands. "It was wicked of me to beso happy, and now I'm going to be punished for it."
John's great heart melted within him. He came swiftly back to her andknelt by her side, and kissed the little hand she gave him.
"Too happy, were you?" he said, with a tenderness that rendered hisdeep voice unsteady. "Because you promised to marry me when Peter camehome?"
"That, and--and everything else," she whispered. "Life seemed to havewidened out, and grown so beautiful. All the dull, empty hours werefilled. Our music, our reading, our companionship, our long walks andtalks, our letters to each other--all those pleasures which you showedme were at once so harmless and so delightful. And as if that werenot enough--came love. Such love as I had only dreamed of--suchunderstanding of each other's every thought and word, as I did notknow was possible between man and woman--or at least"--she correctedherself sadly--"between any man and a woman--of my age."
"You talk of your age," said John, smiling tenderly, "as though itwere a crime."
"It is not a crime, but it is a tragedy," said Lady Mary. "Age is atragedy to every woman who wants to be happy."
"No more, surely, than to every man who loves his work, and sees itslipping from his grasp," said John, slowly. "It's a tragedy we allhave to face, for that matter."
"But so much later," said Lady Mary, quickly.
"I don't see why women should leave off wanting to be happy any soonerthan men," he said stoutly.
"But Nature does," she answered.
John's eyes twinkled. "For my part, I am thankful to fate, whichcaused me to fall in love with a woman only ten years my junior,instead of with a girl young enough to be my daughter. I have gained acompanion as well as a wife; and marvellously adaptive as young womenare, I am conceited enough to think my ideas have travelled beyondthe ideas of most girls of eighteen; and I am not conceited enough tosuppose the girl of eighteen would not find me an old fogey very muchin the way. Let boys mate with girls, say I, and men with women."
Lady Mary smiled in spite of herself. "You know, John, you wouldargue entirely the other way round if you happened to be in lovewith--Sarah," she said.
"To be sure," said John; "it's my trade to argue for the side whichretains my services. I am your servant, thank Heaven, and not Sarah's.And I have no intention of quitting your service," he added, moregravely. "We have settled the question of the future."
"The empty future that suddenly grew so bright," said Lady Mary,dreamily. "Do you remember how you talked of--Italy?"
"Where we shall yet spend our honeymoon," said John. "But I believeyou liked better to hear of my shabby rooms in London which you meantto share."
"Of course," she said simply. "I knew I should bring you so littlemoney."
"And you thought barristers always lived from hand to mouth, and madeno allowance for my having got on in my profession."
"Ah! what did it matter?"
"I think you will find it makes just a little difference," John said,smiling.
"Outside circumstances make less difference to women than mensuppose," said Lady Mary. "They are, oh, so willing to be pamperedin luxury; and, oh, so willing to fly to the other extreme, and dowithout things."
"Are they really?" said John, rather dryly.
He glanced at the little, soft, white hand he held, and smiled. Itlooked so unfitted to help itself.
Lady Mary was resting in her armchair, her delicate face still flushedwith emotion. A transparent purple shade beneath the blue eyesbetrayed that she had been weeping; but she was calmed by John'sstrong and tranquil presence. The shady room was cool and fragrantwith the scent of heliotrope and mignonette.
The band had reached a level plateau below the terrace garden, and wasplaying martial airs to encourage stragglers in the procession, and togive the principal inhabitants of Youlestone time to arrive, and toregain their wind after the steep ascent.
Every time a batch of new arrivals recognized Peter's tall form on theterrace, a fresh burst of cheering rose.
From all sides of the valley, hurrying figures could be seenapproaching Barracombe House.
The noise and confusion without seemed to increase the sense of quietwithin, and the sounds of the gathering crowd made them feel apart andalone together as they had never felt before.
"So all our dreams are to be shattered," said John, quietly, "becauseyour prayer has been granted, and Peter has come home?"
"If you could have heard all he said," she whispered sadly. "He hascome home loving me, trusting me, dependent on me, as he has neverbeen before, since his babyhood. Don't you see--that even if it breaksmy heart, I couldn't fail my boy--just now?"
There was a pause, and she regarded him anxiously; her hands wereclasped tightly together in the effort to still their trembling, herblue eyes looked imploring.
John knew very well that it lay within his powers to make good hisclaim upon that gentle heart, and enforce his will and her submissionto it. But the strongest natures are those which least incline totyranny; and he had already seen the results of coercion upon thatbright and joyous, but timid nature. He knew that her love for him wasof the fanciful, romantic, high-flown order; and as such, it appealedto every chivalrous instinct within him. Though his love for her was,perhaps, of a different kind, he desired her happiness and her peaceof mind, as strongly as he desired her companionship and the sympathywhich was to brighten his lonely life. He was silent for a moment,considering how he should act. If love counselled haste, common sensesuggested patience.
"I couldn't disappoint him now. You see that, John?" said the anxious,gentle voice.
"I am afraid I do see it, Mary," he said. "Our secret must remain oursecret for the present."
"God bless you, John!" said Lady Mary, softly. "You alwaysunderstand."
"I am old enough, at least, to know that happiness cannot be attainedby setting duty aside," he said, as cheerfully as he could.
There was a pause in the music outside, and a voice was heardspeaking.
John rose and straightened himself.
"Have you decided what is to be done--what we had best do?" she saidtimidly.
"I am going to prove that a lover can be devoted, and yet perfectlyreasonable; in defiance of all tradition to the contrary," hesaid gaily. "I shall return to town as soon as I can decently getaway--probably to-morrow."
She uttered a cry. "You are going to leave me?"
"I must give place to Peter."
She came to his side, and clung to his arm as though terrified by thesuccess of her own appeal.
"But you'll come back?"
"I have to account for my stewardship when Peter comes of age in theautumn," he said, smiling down upon her.
She was too quick of perception not to know that strength, andcourage, too, were needed for the smile wherewith John strove to hidea disappointment too deep for words. He answe
red the look shegave him; a look which implored forgiveness, understanding, evenencouragement.
"I'm not yielding a single inch of my claim upon you when the timecomes, my darling; only I think, with you, that the time has not comeyet. I think Peter may reasonably expect to be considered firstfor the present; and that you should be free to devote your wholeattention to him, especially as he has such praiseworthy intentions.We will postpone the whole question until the autumn, when he comes ofage; and when I shall, consequently, be able to tackle him frankly,man to man, and not as one having authority and abusing that same," helaughed. "Meantime, we must be patient. Write often, but not so oftenas to excite remark; and I shall return in the autumn."
"To stay?"
"Ah!" said John, "that depends on you."
He had not meant to be satirical, but the slight inflection of histone cut Lady Mary to the heart.
Her vivid imagination saw her conduct in its worst light: vacillating,feeble, deserting the man she loved at the moment she had led him toexpect triumph; dismissing her faithful servant without his reward.Then, in a flash, came the other side of the picture--the mother ofa grown-up son--a wounded soldier dependent on her love--seekingher personal happiness as though there existed no past memories, nopresent duties, to hinder the fulfilling of her own belated romance.
"Oh, John," said Lady Mary, "tell me what to do? No, no; don't tellme--or I shall do it--and I mustn't."
"My darling," he said, "I only tell you to wait." He rallied himselfto speak cheerfully, and to bring the life and colour back to her sad,white face.
"Just at this moment I quite realize I should be a disturbing element,and I am going to get myself out of the way as quickly as politenesspermits. And you are to devote yourself to Peter, and not to be tornwith self-reproach. If we act sensibly, and don't precipitate matters,nobody need have a grievance, and Peter and I will be the best offriends in the future, I hope. There is little use in having grown-upwits if we snatch our happiness at the expense of other people'sfeelings, as young folk so often do."
The twinkle in his bright eyes, and the kindly humour of his smile,restored her shaken self-confidence.
"Oh, John, no one else could ever understand--as you understand. Ifonly Peter--"
"Peter is a boy," said John, "dreaming as a boy dreams, resolving asa boy resolves; and his dreams and his resolutions are as light asthistledown: the first breath of a new fancy, or a fresh interest,will blow them away. I put my faith in the future, in the near future.Time works wonders."
He stooped and kissed her hands, one after the other, with apossessive tenderness that told her better than words, that he had notresigned his claims.
"Now I'll go and offer my congratulations to the hero of the day,"said John. "I must not put off any longer; and it is quite settledthat our secret is to remain our secret--for the present."
Then he stepped out on to the terrace, and Lady Mary looked after himwith a little sigh and smile.
She lifted a hand-mirror from the silver table that stood at herelbow, and shook her head over it.
"It's all very well for him, and it's all very well for Peter," shesaid; "but Time--Time is _my_ worst enemy."
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