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PETER'S MOTHER

NEW EDITION

WITH INTRODUCTION

BY

MRS. HENRY DE LA PASTURE

1906

And I left my youth behind For somebody else to find.

TO THE BELOVED MEMORY OF MY ONLY BROTHER

LT. COLONEL WALTER FLOYD BONHAM, D.S.O.

TO MY AMERICAN READERS

The author of "Peter's Mother" has been bidden of the publishers, who have incurred the responsibility of presenting her to the American public, to write a preface to this edition of her novel. She does so with the more diffidence because it has been impressed upon her, by more than one wiseacre, that her novels treat of a life too narrow, an atmosphere too circumscribed, to be understood or appreciated by American readers.

No one can please everybody; I suppose that no one, except the old man in Aesop's Fable, ever tried to do so. But I venture to believe that to some Americans, a sincere and truthful portrait of a typical Englishwoman of a certain class may prove attractive, as to us are the studies of a "David Harum," or others whose characteristics interest because—and not in spite of—their strangeness and unfamiliarity. We do not recognise the type; but as those who do have acknowledged the accuracy of the representation, we read, learn, and enjoy making acquaintance with an individuality and surroundings foreign to our own experience.

There are hundreds of Englishwomen living lives as isolated, as guarded from all practical knowledge of the outer world, as entirely circumscribed as the life of Lady Mary Crewys; though they are not all unhappy. On the contrary, many diffuse content and kindness all around them, and take it for granted that their own personal wishes are of no account.

Indeed it would seem that some cease to be aware what their own personal wishes are.

With anxious eyes fixed on others—the husband, father, sons, who dominate them,—they live to please, to serve, to nurse, and to console; revered certainly as queens of their tiny kingdoms, but also helpless as prisoners.

Calm, as fixed stars, they regard (perhaps sometimes a little wistfully) the orbits of brighter planets, and the flashing of occasional meteors, within their ken; knowing that their own place is unchangeable—immutable.

That the views of such women are often narrow, their prejudices many, their conventions tiresome, who shall deny? That their souls are pure and tender, their hearts open to kindness as are their hands to charity, nobody who knows the type will dispute. They lack many advantages which their more independent sisters (no less gifted with noble and womanly qualities) enjoy, but they possess a peculiar gentleness, which is all their own, whether it be adored or despised.

When one of their number happens to be cleverer, larger minded, more restless, and impatient, it may be, by nature than her sisters, tragedy may ensue. But not often. Habit and public opinion are strong restrainers, stronger sometimes than even the most carefully inculcated abstract principles.

To turn to another phase of the story—there was a time during the Boer War when there was literally scarcely a woman in England who was not mourning the death of some man—be he son, brother, or husband, lover or friend,—and that time seems still very, very recent to some of us.

The rights and wrongs of a war have nothing to do with the sympathy all civilised men and women extend to the soldiers on both sides who take part in it.

"Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do or die,"

and whether they "do or die," the mingled suspense, pride, and anguish suffered by their women-kind rouses the pity of the world; but most of all, for the secret of sympathy is understanding, the pity of those who have suffered likewise. So that such escapades as Peter's in the story, being not very uncommon at that dark period (and having its foundation in fact), may have touched hearts over here, which will be unmoved on the other side of the Atlantic. I cannot tell. I have known very few Americans, and though I have counted those few among my friends, they have been rarely met.

My only knowledge of America has been gleaned from my observation of these, and from reading. As it happens, the favourite books of my childhood were, with few exceptions, American.

Partly from association and partly because I count it the most truly delightful story of its kind that ever was written, "Little Women" has always retained its early place in my affections. "Meg," "Jo," "Beth," and "Amy" are my oldest and dearest friends; and when I think of them, it is hard to believe that America could be a land of strangers to me after all. I confess to a weakness for the "Wide, Wide World" and a secret passion for "Queechy." I loved "Mr. Rutherford's Children," and was always interested to hear "What Katy Did," Whilst the very thought of "Melbourne House" thrills me with recollections of the joy I experienced therein.

But this is all by the way; and for the egotism which is, I fear me, displayed in this foreword, I can but plead, not only the difficulty of writing a preface at all, when one has no personal inclination that way, but the nervousness which must beset a writer who is directly addressing not a tried and friendly public, but an unknown, and, it may be, less easily pleased and more critical audience. It appears to me that it would be a simpler thing to write another book; and I would rather do so. I can only hope that some of the readers of "Peter's Mother," if she is so happy as to find favour in American eyes, would rather I did so too; in I which case I shall very joyfully try to gratify their wishes, and my own.

BETTY DE LA PASTURE.

PETER'S MOTHER

CHAPTER I

Above Youlestone village, overlooking the valley and the river, and the square-towered church, stood Barracombe House, backed by Barracombe Woods, and owned by Sir Timothy Crewys, of Barracombe.

From the terrace before his windows Sir Timothy could take a bird's-eye view of his own property, up the river and down the river; while he also had the felicity of beholding the estate of his most important neighbour, Colonel Hewel, of Hewelscourt, mapped out before his eyes, as plainly visible in detail as land on the opposite side of a narrow valley must always be.

He cast no envious glances at his neighbour's property. The Youle was a boundary which none could dispute, and which could only be conveniently crossed by the ferry, for the nearest bridge was seven miles distant, at Brawnton, the old post-town.

From Brawnton the coach still ran once a week for the benefit of the outlying villages, and the single line of rail which threaded the valley of the Youle in the year 1900 was still a novelty to the inhabitants of this unfrequented part of Devon.

Sir Timothy sometimes expressed a majestic pity for Colonel Hewel, because the railway ran through some of his neighbour's best fields; and also because Hewelscourt was on the wrong side of the river—faced due north—and was almost buried in timber. But Colonel Hewel was perfectly satisfied with his own situation, though sorry for Sir Timothy, who lived within full view of the railway, but was obliged to drive many miles round by Brawnton Bridge in order to reach the station.

The two gentlemen seldom met. They lived in different parishes, and administered justice in different directions. Sir Timothy's dignity did not permit him to make use of the ferry, and he rarely drove further than Brawnton, or rode much beyond the boundaries of his own estate. He cared only for farming, whilst Colonel Hewel was devoted to sport.

The Crewys family had been Squires of Barracombe, cultivating their own lands and living upon them contentedly, for centuries before the Hewels had ever been heard of in Devon, as all the village knew very well; wherefore they regarded the Hewels with a mixture of good-natured contempt and kindly tolerance. The contempt was because Hewelscourt had been built within the memory of living man, and only two generations of Hewels born therein; the tolerance because the present owner, though not a wealthy man, was as liberal in his dealings as their squire was the reverse.

* * * * *

In the reign of Charles I., one Peter Crewys, an adventurous younger son of this obscure but ancient Devonshire family, had gained local notoriety by raising a troop of enthusiastic yeomen for his Majesty's service; subsequently his own reckless personal gallantry won wider recognition in many an affray with the parliamentary troops; and on the death of his royal master, Peter Crewys was forced to fly the country. He joined King Charles II. in his exile, whilst his prudent elder brother severed all connection with him, denounced him as a swashbuckler, and made his own peace with the Commonwealth.

The Restoration, however, caused Farmer Timothy to welcome his relative home in the warmest manner, and the brothers were not only reconciled in their old age, but the elder made haste to transfer the ownership of Barracombe to the younger, in terror lest his own disloyalty should be rewarded by confiscation of the family acres.

A careless but not ungrateful monarch, rejoicing doubtless to see his faithful soldier and servant so well provided for, bestowed on him a baronetcy, a portrait by Vandyck of the late king, his father, and the promise of a handsome sum of money, for the payment of which the new baronet forebore to press his royal patron. His services thus recognized and rewarded, old Sir Peter Crewys settled down amicably with his brother at Barracombe.

Presumably there had always been an excellent understanding between them. In any case no question of divided interests ever arose.

Sir Peter enlarged the old Elizabethan homestead to suit his new dignity; built a picture-gallery, which he stocked handsomely with family portraits; designed terrace gardens on the hillside after a fashion he had learnt in Italy, and adopted his eldest nephew as his heir.

Old Timothy meanwhile continued to cultivate the land undisturbed, disdaining newfangled ideas of gentility, and adhering in all ways to the customs of his father. Presently, soldier and farmer also passed away, and were laid to rest side by side on the banks of the Youle, in the shadow of the square-towered church.

Before the house rolled rich meadows, open spaces of cornland, and low-lying orchards. The building itself stood out boldly on a shelf of the hill; successive generations of the Crewys family had improved or enlarged it with more attention to convenience than to architecture. The older portion was overshadowed by an imposing south front of white stone, shaded in summer by a prolific vine, which gave it a foreign appearance, further enhanced by rows of green shutters. It was screened from the north by the hill, and from the east by a dense wood. Myrtles, hydrangeas, magnolias, and orange-trees nourished out-of-doors upon the sheltered terraces cut in the red sandstone.

The woods of Barracombe stretched upwards to the skyline of the ridge behind the house, and were intersected by winding paths, bordered by hardy fuchsias and delicate ferns. A rushing stream dropped from height to height on its rocky course, and ended picturesquely and usefully in a waterfall close to the village, where it turned an old mill-wheel before disappearing into the Youle.

If the Squire of Barracombe overlooked from his terrace garden the inhabitants of the village and the tell-tale doorway of the much-frequented inn on the high-road below—his tenants in the valley and on the hillside were privileged in turn to observe the goings-in and comings-out of their beloved landlord almost as intimately; nor did they often tire of discussing his movements, his doings, and even his intentions.

His monotonous life provided small cause for gossip or speculation; but when the opportunity arose, it was eagerly seized.

In the failing light of a February afternoon a group of labourers assembled before the hospitably open door of the Crewys Arms.

"Him baint been London ways vor uppard of vivdeen year, tu my zurtain knowledge," said the old road-mender, jerking his empty pewter upwards in the direction of the terrace, where Sir Timothy's solid dark form could be discerned pacing up and down before his white house.

"Tis vur a ligacy. You may depend on't. 'Twas vur a ligacy last time," said a brawny ploughman.

"Volk doan't git ligacies every day," said the road-mender, contemptuously. "I zays 'tis Master Peter. Him du be just the age when byes du git drubblezum, gentle are zimple. I were drubblezum myself as a bye."

"'Twas tu fetch down this 'ere London jintle-man as comed on here wi' him to-day, I tell 'ee. His cousin, are zuch like. Zame name, anyways, var James Coachman zaid zo."

"Well, I telled 'ee zo," said the road-mender. "He's brart down the nextest heir, var tu keep a hold over Master Peter, and I doan't blame 'un."

"James Coachman telled me vive minutes zince as zummat were up. 'Ee zad such arders var tu-morrer morning, 'ee says, as niver 'ee had befar," said the landlord.

"Thart James Coachman weren't niver lit tu come here," said the road-mender, slyly. His toothless mouth extended into the perpetual smile which had earned him the nickname of "Happy Jack," over sixty years since, when he had been the prettiest lad in the parish.

"He only snicked down vor a drop o' brandy, vur he were clean rampin' mazed wi' tuth-ache. He waited till pretty nigh dusk var the ole ladies tu be zafe. 'Ee says they du take it by turns zo long as daylight du last, tu spy out wi' their microscopes, are zum zuch, as none of Sir Timothy's volk git tarking down this ways. A drop o' my zider might git tu their 'yeds," said the landlord, sarcastically, "though they drinks Sir Timothy's by the bucket-vull up tu Barracombe."

"'Tis stronger than yars du be," said Happy Jack. "There baint no warter put tu't, Joe Gudewyn. The warter-varl be tu handy vur yure brewin'."

"Zum of my customers has weak 'yeds, 'tis arl the better for they," said Goodwyn, calmly.

"Then charge 'em accardin', Mr. Landlord, charge 'em accardin', zays I. Warter doan't cost 'ee nart, du 'un?" said Happy Jack, triumphantly.

"'Ere be the doctor goin' on in's trap, while yu du be tarking zo," said the ploughman. "Lard, he du be a vast goer, be Joe Blundell."

"I drove zo vast as that, and vaster, when I kip a harse," said the road-mender, jealously. "'Ee be a young man, not turned vifty. I mind his vather and mother down tu Cullacott befar they was wed. Why doan't he go tu the war, that's what I zay?"

"Sir Timothy doan't hold wi' the war," said the landlord.

"Mar shame vor 'un," said Happy Jack. "But me and Zur Timothy, us made up our minds tu differ long ago. I'm arl vor vighting vurriners—Turks, Rooshans, Vrinchmen; 'tis arl one tu I."

"Why doan't 'ee volunteer thyself, Vather Jack? Thee baint turned nointy yit, be 'ee?" said a labourer, winking heavily, to convey to the audience that the suggestion was a humorous one.

"Ah, zo I wude, and shute Boers wi' the best on 'un. But the
Governmint baint got the zince tu ax me," said Happy Jack, chuckling.
"The young volk baint nigh zo knowing as I du be. Old Kruger wuden't
ha' tuke in I, try as 'un wude. I be zo witty as iver I can be."

Dr. Blundell saluted the group before the inn as he turned his horse to climb the steep road to Barracombe.

No breath of wind stirred, and the smoke from the cottage chimneys was lying low in the valley, hovering over the river in the still air.

A few primroses peeped out of sheltered corners under the hedge, and held out a timid promise of spring. The doctor followed the red road which wound between Sir Timothy's carefully enclosed plantations of young larch, passed the lodge gates, which were badly in need of repair, and entered the drive.

CHAPTER II

The justice-room was a small apartment in the older portion of Barracombe House; the low windows were heavily latticed, and faced west.

Sir Timothy sat before his writing-table, which was heaped with papers, directories, and maps; but he could no longer see to read or write. He made a stiff pretence of rising to greet the doctor as he entered, and then resumed his elbow-chair.

The rapidly failing daylight showed a large elderly, rather pompous gentleman, with a bald head, grizzled whiskers, and heavy plebeian features.

His face was smooth and unwrinkled, as the faces of prosperous and self-satisfied persons sometimes are, even after sixty, which was the age Sir Timothy had attained.

Dr. Blundell, who sat opposite his patient, was neither prosperous nor self-satisfied.

His dark clean-shaven face was deeply lined; care or over-work had furrowed his brow; and the rather unkempt locks of black hair which fell over it were streaked with white. From the deep-set brown eyes looked sadness and fatigue, as well as a great kindness for his fellow-men.

"I came the moment I received your letter," he said. "I had no idea you were back from London already."

"Dr. Blundell," said Sir Timothy, pompously, "when I took the very unusual step of leaving home the day before yesterday, I had resolved to follow the advice you gave me. I went to fulfil an appointment I had made with a specialist."

"With Sir James Power?"

"No, with a man named Herslett. You may have heard of him."

"Heard of him!" ejaculated Blundell. "Why, he's world-famous! A new man. Very clever, of course. If anything, a greater authority. Only I fancied you would perhaps prefer an older, graver man."

"No doubt I committed a breach of medical etiquette," said Sir
Timothy, in self-satisfied tones. "But I fancied you might have
written your version of the case to Power. Ah, you did? Exactly. But
I was determined to have an absolutely unbiassed opinion."

"Well," said Blundell, gently.

"Well—I got it, that's all," said Sir Timothy. The triumph seemed to die out of his voice.

"Was it—unsatisfactory?"

"Not from your point of view," said the squire, with a heavy jocularity which did not move the doctor to mirth. "I'm bound to say he confirmed your opinion exactly. But he took a far more serious view of my case than you do."

"Did he?" said Blundell, turning away his head.

"The operation you suggested as a possible necessity must be immediate. He spoke of it quite frankly as the only possible chance of saving my life, which is further endangered by every hour of delay."

"Fortunately," said Blundell, cheerfully, "you have a fine constitution, and you have lived a healthy abstemious life. That is all in your favour."

"I am over sixty years of age," said Sir Timothy, coldly, "and the ordeal before me is a very severe one, as you must be well aware. I must take the risk of course, but the less said about the matter the better."

Dr. Blundell had always regarded Sir Timothy Crewys as a commonplace contradictory gentleman, beset by prejudices which belonged properly to an earlier generation, and of singularly narrow sympathies and interests. He believed him to be an upright man according to his lights, which were not perhaps very brilliant lights after all; but he knew him to be one whom few people found it possible to like, partly on account of his arrogance, which was excessive; and partly on account of his want of consideration for the feelings of others, which arose from lack of perception.

People are disliked more often for a bad manner than for a bad heart. The one is their private possession—the other they obtrude on their acquaintance.

Sir Timothy's heart was not bad, and he cared less for being liked than for being respected. He was the offspring of a mésalliance; and greatly over-estimating the importance in which his family was held, he imagined he would be looked down upon for this mischance, unless he kept people at a distance and in awe of him. The idea was a foolish one, no doubt, but then Sir Timothy was not a wise man; on the contrary, his lifelong determination to keep himself loftily apart from his fellow-men had resulted in an almost extraordinary ignorance of the world he lived in—a world which Sir Timothy regarded as a wild and misty place, peopled largely and unnecessarily with savages and foreigners, and chiefly remarkable for containing England; as England justified its existence by holding Devonshire, and more especially Barracombe.

Sir Timothy had never been sent to school, and owed such education as he possessed almost entirely to his half-sisters. These ladies were considerably his seniors, and had in turn been brought up at Barracombe by their grandmother; whose maxims they still quoted, and whose ideas they had scarcely outgrown. Under the circumstances, the narrowness of his outlook was perhaps hardly to be wondered at.

But the dull immovability and sense of importance which characterized him now seemed to the doctor to be almost tragically charged with the typical matter-of-fact courage of the Englishman; who displays neither fear nor emotion; and who would regard with horror the suspicion that such repression might be heroic.

"When is it to be?" said Blundell.

"To-morrow."

"To-morrow!"

"And here," said Sir Timothy; "Dr. Herslett objected, but I insisted. I won't be ill in a strange house. I shall recover far more rapidly—if I am to recover—among my people, in my native air. London stifles me. I dislike crowds and noise. I hate novelty. If I am to die, I will die at home."

"Herslett himself performs the operation, of course?"

"Yes. He is to arrive at Brawnton to-night, and sleep there. I shall send the carriage over for him and his assistants early to-morrow morning. You, of course, will meet him here, and the operation is to take place at eleven o'clock."

In his alarm lest the doctor might be moved to express sympathy, Sir
Timothy spoke with unusual severity.

Dr. Blundell understood, and was silent.

"I sent for you, of course, to let you know all this," said Sir
Timothy, "but I wished, also, to introduce you to my cousin, John
Crewys, who came down with me."

"The Q.C.?"

"Exactly. I have made him my executor and trustee, and guardian of my son."

"Jointly with Lady Mary, I presume?" said the doctor, unguardedly.

"Certainly not," said Sir Timothy, stiffly. "Lady Mary has never been troubled with business matters. That is why I urged John to come down with me. In case—anything—happens to-morrow, his support will be invaluable to her. I have a high opinion of him. He has succeeded in life through his own energy, and he is the only member of my family who has never applied to me for assistance. I inquired the reason on the journey down, for I know that at one time he was in very poor circumstances; and he replied that he would rather have starved than have asked me for sixpence. I call that a very proper spirit."

The doctor made no comment on the anecdote. "May I ask how Lady Mary is bearing this suspense?" he asked.

"Lady Mary knows nothing of the matter," said the squire, rather peevishly.

"You have not prepared her?"

"No; and I particularly desire she and my sisters should hear nothing of it. If this is to be my last evening on earth, I should not wish it to be clouded by tears and lamentations, which might make it difficult for me to maintain my own self-command. Herslett said I was not to be agitated. I shall bid them all good night just as usual. In the morning I beg you will be good enough to make the necessary explanations. Lady Mary need hear nothing of it till it is over, for you know she never leaves her room before twelve—a habit I have often deplored, but which is highly convenient on this occasion."

Dr. Blundell reflected for a moment. "May I venture to remonstrate with you, Sir Timothy?" he said. "I fear Lady Mary may be deeply shocked and hurt at being thus excluded from your confidence in so serious a case. Should anything go wrong," he added bluntly, "it would be difficult to account to her even for my own reticence."

Sir Timothy rose majestic from his chair. "You will say that I forbade you to make the communication," he said, with rather a displeased air.

"I beg your pardon," said Dr. Blundell, "but—"

"I am not offended," interrupted Sir Timothy, mistaking remonstrance for apology. He was quite honestly incapable of supposing that his physician would presume to argue with him.

"You do not, very naturally, understand Lady Mary's disposition as well as I do," he said, almost graciously. "She has been sheltered from anxiety, from trouble of every kind, since her childhood. To me, more than a quarter of a century her senior, she seems, indeed, still almost a child."

Dr. Blundell coloured. "Yet she is the mother of a grown-up son," he said.

"Peter grown-up! Nonsense! A schoolboy."

"Eighteen," said the doctor, shortly. "You don't wish him sent for?"

"Most certainly not. The Christmas holidays are only just over. Rest assured, Dr. Blundell," said Sir Timothy, with grim emphasis, "that I shall give Peter no excuse for leaving his work, if I can help it."

There was a tap at the door. The squire lowered his voice and spoke hurriedly.

"If it is the canon, tell him, in confidence, what I have told you, and say that I should wish him to be present to-morrow, in his official capacity, in case of—"

It was the canon, whose rosy good-humoured countenance appeared in the doorway whilst Sir Timothy was yet speaking.

"I hope I am not interrupting," he said, "but the ladies desired me—that is, Lady Belstone and Miss Crewys desired me—to let you know that tea was ready."

The canon had an innocent surprised face like a baby; he was constitutionally timid and amiable, and his dislike of argument, or of a loud voice, almost amounted to fear.

Sir Timothy mistook his nervousness for proper respect, and maintained a distant but condescending graciousness towards him.

"I hear you came back by the afternoon train, Sir Timothy. A London outing is a rare thing for you. I hope you enjoyed yourself," said the canon, with a meaningless laugh.

"I transacted my business successfully, thank you," said Sir Timothy, gravely.

"Brought back any fresh news of the war?"

"None at all."

"I hear the call for more men has been responded to all over the country. It's a fine thing, so many young fellows ready and willing to lay down their lives for their country."

"Very few young men, I believe," said Sir Timothy, frigidly, "can resist any opportunity to be concerned in brawling and bloodshed, especially when it is legalized under the name of war. My respect is reserved for the steady workers at home."

"And how much peace would the steady workers at home enjoy without the brawlers abroad to defend them, I wonder!" cried the canon, flushing all over his rosy face, and then suddenly faltering as he met the cold surprise of the squire's grey eyes.

"I have some letters to finish before post time," said Sir Timothy, after an impressive short pause of displeasure. "I will join you presently, Dr. Blundell, at the tea-table, if you will return to the ladies with Canon Birch."

Sir Timothy rang for lights, and his visitors closed the door of the study behind them. Dr. Blundell's backward glance showed him the tall and portly form silhouetted against the window; the last gleam of daylight illuminating the iron-grey hair; the face turned towards the hilltop, where the spires of the skeleton larches were sharply outlined against a clear western sky.

"What made you harp upon the war, man, knowing what his opinions are?" the doctor asked vexedly, as he stumbled along the uneven stone passage towards the hall.

"I did not exactly intend to do so; but I declare, the moment I see Sir Timothy, every subject I wish to avoid seems to fly to the tip of my tongue," said the poor canon, apologetically; "though I had a reason for alluding to the war to-night—a good reason, as I think you will acknowledge presently. I want your advice, doctor."

"Not for yourself, I hope," said the doctor, absently.

"Come into the gun-room for one moment," said Birch. "It is very important. Do you know I've a letter from Peter?"

"From Peter! Why should you have a letter from Peter?" said the doctor, and his uninterested tone became alert.

"I'm sure I don't know why not. I was always fond of Peter," said the canon, humbly. "Will you cast your eye over it? You see, it's written from Eton, and posted two days later in London."

Dr. Blundell read the letter, which was written in a schoolboy hand, and not guiltless of mistakes in spelling.

"DEAR CANON BIRCH,

"As my father wouldn't hear of my going out to South Africa, I've taken the law into my own hands. I wrote to my mother's cousin, Lord Ferries, to ask him to include me in his yeomanry corps. Of course I let him suppose papa was willing and anxious, which perhaps was a low-down game, but I remembered that all's fair in love and war; and besides, I consider papa very nearly a pro-Boer. We've orders to sail on Friday, which is sharp work; but I should be eternally disgraced now if they stopped me. As my father never listens to reason, far less to me, you had better explain to him that if he's any regard for the honour of our name, he's no choice left. I expect my mother had better not be told till I'm gone, or she will only fret over what can't be helped. I'll write to her on board, once we're safely started. I know you're all right about the war, so you can tell papa I was ashamed to be playing football while fellows younger than me, and fellows who can't shoot or ride as I can, are going off to South Africa every day.

"Yours affectionately,

"PETER CREWYS.

"P.S.—Hope you won't mind this job. I did try to get papa's leave fair and square first."

"I always said Peter was a fine fellow at bottom," said Canon Birch, anxiously scanning the doctor's frowning face.

"He's an infernal self-willed, obstinate, heartless young cub on top, then," said Blundell.

"He's a chip of the old block, no doubt," said the canon; "but still"—his admiration of Peter's boldness was perceptible in his voice—"he doesn't share his father's reprehensible opinions on the subject of the war."

"Sons generally begin life by differing from their fathers, and end by imitating them," said Blundell, sharply. "Birch, we must stop him."

"I don't see how," said the canon; and he indulged in a gentle chuckle. "The young rascal has laid his plans too well. He sails to-morrow. I telegraphed inquiries. Ferries' Horse are going by the Rosmore Castle to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock."

Dr. Blundell made an involuntary movement, which the canon did not perceive.

"I don't relish the notion of breaking this news to Sir Timothy. But I thought we could consult together, you and me, how to do it," said the innocent gentleman. "There's no doubt, you know, that it must be done at once, or he can't get to Southampton in time to see the boy off and forgive him. I suppose even Sir Timothy will forgive him at such a moment. God bless the lad!"

Dr. Blundell uttered an exclamation that did not sound like a blessing.

"Look here, Birch," he said, "this is no time to mince matters. If the boy can't be stopped—and under the circumstances he's got us on toast—he can't cry off active service—as the boy can't be stopped, you must just keep this news to yourself."

"But I must tell Sir Timothy!"

"You must not tell Sir Timothy."

"Though all my sympathies are with the boy—for I'm a patriot first, and a parson afterwards—God forgive me for saying so," said Birch, in a trembling voice, "yet I can't take the responsibility of keeping Peter's father in ignorance of his action. I see exactly what you mean, of course. Sir Timothy will make unpleasantness, and very likely telegraph to his commanding officer, and disgrace the poor boy before his comrades; and shout at me, a thing I can't bear; and you kindly think to spare me—and Peter. But I can't take the responsibility of keeping it dark, for all that," said the canon, shaking his head regretfully.

"I take the responsibility," said the doctor, shortly. "As Sir Timothy's physician, I forbid you to tell him."

"Is Sir Timothy ill?" The canon's light eyes grew rounder with alarm.

"He is to undergo a dangerous operation to-morrow morning."

"God bless my soul!"

"He desires this evening—possibly his last on earth—to be a calm and unclouded one," said the doctor. "Respect his wishes, Birch, as you would respect the wishes of a dying man."

"Do you mean he won't get over it?" said the canon, in a horrified whisper.

"You always want the t's crossed and the i's dotted," said
Blundell, impatiently. "Of course there is a chance—his only chance.
He's a d——d plucky old fellow. I never thought to like Sir Timothy
half so well as I do at this moment."

"I hope I don't dislike any man," faltered the canon. "But—"

"Exactly," said the doctor, dryly.

"But what shall I do with Peter's letter?" said the unhappy recipient.

"Not one word to Sir Timothy. Agitation or distress of mind at such a moment would be the worst thing in the world for him."

"But I can't let Peter sail without a word to his people. And his mother. Good God, Blundell! Is Lady Mary to lose husband and son in one day?"

"Lady Mary," said the doctor, bitterly, "is to be treated, as usual, like a child, and told nothing of her husband's danger till it's over. As for Peter—well, devoted mother as she is, she must be pretty well accustomed by this time to the captious indifference of her spoilt boy. She won't be surprised, though she may be hurt, that he should coolly propose to set off without bidding her good-bye."

"Couldn't we tell her in confidence about Peter?" said the canon, struck with a brilliant idea.

"Certainly not; she would fly to him at once, and leave Sir Timothy alone in his extremity."

"Couldn't we tell her in confidence about Sir Timothy?"

"I have allowed Sir Timothy to understand that neither you nor I will betray his secret."

"I'm no hand at keeping a secret," said the canon, unhappily.

"Nonsense, canon, nonsense," said Dr. Blundell, laying a friendly hand on his shoulder. "No man in your profession, or in mine, ought to be able to say that. Pull yourself together, hope for the best, and play your part."

CHAPTER III

John Crewys looked round the hall at Barracombe House with curious, interested eyes.

It was divided from the outer vestibule on the western side of the building by a massive partition of dark oak, and it retained the solid beams and panelled walls of Elizabethan days; but the oak had been barbarously painted, grained and varnished. Only the staircase was so heavily and richly carved, that it had defied the ingenuity of the comb engraver. It occupied the further end of the hall, opposite the entrance door, and was lighted dimly by a small heavily leaded, stained-glass window. The floor was likewise black, polished with age and the labour of generations. A deeply sunken nail-studded door led into a low-ceiled library, containing a finely carved frieze and cornice, and an oak mantelpiece, which John Crewys earnestly desired to examine more closely; the shield-of-arms above it bore the figures of 1603, but the hall itself was of an earlier date.

Parallel to it was the suite of lofty, modern, green-shuttered reception-rooms, which occupied the south front of the house, and into which an opening had been cut through the massive wall next the chimney.

The character of the hall was, however, completely destroyed by the decoration which had been bestowed upon it, and by the furniture and pictures which filled it.

John Crewys looked round with more indignation than admiration at the home of his ancestors.

In the great oriel window stood a round mahogany table, bearing a bouquet of wax flowers under a glass shade. Cases of stuffed birds ornamented every available recess; mahogany and horsehair chairs were set stiffly round the walls at even distances. A heap of folded moth-eaten rugs and wraps disfigured a side-table, and beneath it stood a row of clogs and goloshes.

Round the walls hung full-length portraits of an early Victorian date. The artist had spent a couple of months at Barracombe fifty years since, and had painted three generations of the Crewys family, who were then gathered together beneath its hospitable roof. His diligence had been more remarkable than his ability. At any other time John Crewys would have laughed outright at this collection of works of art.

But the air was charged with tragedy, and he could not laugh. His seriousness commended him favourably, had he known it, to the two old ladies, his cousins, Sir Timothy's half-sisters, who were seated beside the great log fire, and who regarded him with approving eyes. For their stranger cousin had that extreme gentleness and courtesy of manner and regard, which sometimes accompanies unusual strength, whether of character or of person.

It was a pity, old Lady Belstone whispered to her spinster sister, that John was not a Crewys, for he had a remarkably fine head, and had he been but a little taller and slimmer, would have been a credit to the family.

Certainly John was not a Crewys. He possessed neither grey eyes, nor a large nose, nor the height which should be attained by every man and woman bearing that name, according to the family record.

But though only of middle size, and rather square-shouldered, he was, nevertheless, a distinguished-looking man, with a finely shaped head and well-cut features. Clean shaven, as a great lawyer ought to be, with a firm and rather satirical mouth, a broad brow, and bright hazel eyes set well apart and twinkling with humour. No doubt John's appearance had been a factor in his successful career.

The sisters, themselves well advanced in the seventies, spoke of him and thought of him as a young man; a boy who had succeeded in life in spite of small means, and an extravagant mother, to whom he had been obliged to sacrifice his patrimony. But though he carried his forty-five years lightly, John Crewys had left his boyhood very far behind him. His crisp dark hair was frosted on the temples; he stooped a little after the fashion of the desk-worker; he wore pince-nez; his manner, though alert, was composed and dignified. The restlessness, the nervous energy of youth, had been replaced by the calm confidence of middle age—of tested strength, of ripe experience.

On his side, John Crewys felt very kindly towards the venerable ladies, who represented to him all the womankind of his own race.

Both sisters possessed the family characteristics which he lacked. They were tall and surprisingly upright, considering the weight of years which pressed upon their thin shoulders. They retained the manners—almost the speech—of the eighteenth century, to which the grandmother who was responsible for their upbringing had belonged; and, with the exception of a very short experience of matrimony in Lady Belstone's case, they had always resided exclusively at Barracombe.

Lady Belstone, besides her widowed dignity, had the advantage of her sister in appearance, mainly because she permitted art, in some degree, to repair the ravages of time. A stiff toupet of white curls crowned the withered brow, below a widow's cap; and, when she smiled, which was not very often, a double row of pearls was not unpleasantly displayed. Miss Crewys had never succumbed to the temptations of worldly vanity. She scrupulously parted her scanty grey locks above her polished forehead, and cared not how wide the parting grew. If she wore a velvet bow upon her scalp, it was, as she truly said, for decency, and not for ornament; and further, she allowed her wholesome, ruddy cheeks to fall in, as her ever-lengthening teeth fell out. The frequent explanations which ensued, regarding the seniority of the widow, were a source of constant satisfaction to Miss Crewys, and vexation to her sister.

"You might be a hundred years old, Georgina," she would angrily lament.

"I very soon shall be a hundred years old, Isabella, if I live as long as my grandmother did," Miss Crewys would triumphantly reply. "It is surprising to me that a woman who was never good-looking at the best of times, should cling to her youth as you do."

"It is more surprising to me that you should let yourself go to rack and ruin, and never stretch out a hand to help yourself."

"I am what God made me," said the pious Georgina, "whereas you do everything but paint your face, Isabella; and I have little doubt but what you will come to that by the time you are eighty."

But though they disputed hotly on occasion the sisters generally preserved a united front before the world, and only argued, since argue they must, in the most polite and affectionate terms.

The firelight shed its cheerful glow over the laden tea-table, and was reflected in the silver urn, and the crimson and gold and blue of the Crown Derby tea-set. But the old ladies, though casting longing eyes in the direction of the teapot, religiously abstained from offering to touch it.

"No, John," said Miss Crewys, in a tone of exemplary patience; "I have made it a rule never to take upon myself any of the duties of hospitality in my dear brother's house, ever since he married,—odd as it may seem, when we remember how he used once to sit at this very table in his little bib and tucker, whilst Isabella poured out his milk, and I cut his bread and butter."

"We both make the rule, John," said Lady Belstone, mournfully, "or, of course, as the elder sister, I should naturally pour out the tea in our dear Lady Mary's absence."

"Of course, of course," said John Crewys.

"Forgive me, Isabella, but we have discussed this point before," said Miss Crewys. "Though I cannot deny, our cousin being, as he is, a lawyer, his opinion would carry weight. But I think he will agree with me"—John smiled—"that when the elder daughter of a house marries, she forfeits her rights of seniority in that house, and the next sister succeeds to her place."

"I should suppose that might be the case," John, bowing politely in the direction of the widow.

"I never disputed the fact, Georgina. It is, as our cousin says, self-evident," said Lady Belstone, returning the bow. "But I have always maintained, and always shall, that when the married sister comes back widowed to the home of her fathers, the privileges of birth are restored to her."

Both sisters turned shrewd, expectant grey eyes upon their cousin.

"It is—it is rather a nice point," said John Crewys, as gravely as he could.

He welcomed thankfully the timely interruption of an opening door and the entrance of Canon Birch and the doctor.

At the same moment, from the archway which supported the great oak staircase, the butler entered, carrying lights.

"Is her ladyship not yet returned from her walk, Ash?" asked Lady
Belstone, with affected surprise.

"Her ladyship came in some time ago, my lady, and went to see Sir Timothy. She left word she was gone upstairs to change her walking things, and would be down directly."

The sisters greeted the canon with effusion, and Dr. Blundell with frigid civility.

John Crewys shook hands with both gentlemen.

"I am sorry I cannot offer you tea, Canon Birch, until my sister-in-law comes down," said Miss Crewys.

"Our dear Lady Mary is so very unpunctual," said Lady Belstone.

"I dare say something has detained her," said the canon, good-humouredly.

"It often happens that my sister and myself are kept waiting a quarter of an hour or more for our tea. We do not complain," said Lady Belstone.

John Crewys began to feel a little sorry for Lady Mary.

As the sisters appeared inclined to devote themselves to their clerical visitor rather exclusively, he drew near the recess to which Dr. Blundell had retired, and joined him in the oriel window.

"Have you never been here before?" asked the doctor, rather abruptly.

"Never," said John Crewys, smiling. "I understand my cousins are not much given to entertaining visitors. I have never, in fact, seen any of them but once before. That was at Sir Timothy's wedding, twenty years ago."

"Barely nineteen," said the doctor.

"I believe it was nineteen, since you remind me," said John, slightly astonished. "I remember thinking Sir Timothy a lucky man."

"I dare say he looked much about the same as he does now," said the doctor.

"Well," John said, "perhaps a little slimmer, you know. Not much. An iron-grey, middle-aged-looking man. No; he has changed very little."

"He was born elderly, and he will die elderly," said the doctor, shortly. "Neither the follies of youth nor the softening of age will ever be known to Sir Timothy." He paused, noting the surprised expression of John's face, and added apologetically, "I am a native of these parts. I have known him all my life."

"And I am—only a stranger," said John. He hesitated, and lowered his voice. "You know why I came?"

"Yes, I know. I am very glad you did come," said the doctor. His tone changed. "Here is Lady Mary," he said.

John Crewys was struck by the sudden illumination of Dr. Blundell's plain, dark face. The deeply sunken eyes glowed, and the sadness and weariness of their expression were dispelled.

His eyes followed the direction of the doctor's gaze, and his own face immediately reflected the doctor's interest.

Lady Mary was coming down the wide staircase, in the light of a group of wax candles held by a tall bronze angel.

She was dressed with almost rigid simplicity, and her abundant light-brown hair was plainly parted. She was pale and even sad-looking, but beautiful still; with a delicate and regular profile, soft blue eyes, and a sweet, rather tremulous mouth.

John's heart seemed to contract within him, and then beat fast with a sensation that was not entirely pity, because those eyes—the bluest, he remembered, that he had ever seen—brought back to him, suddenly and vividly, the memory of the exquisitely fresh and lovely girl who had married her elderly guardian nineteen years since.

He recollected that some members of the Crewys family had agreed that Lady Mary Setoun had done well for herself, "a penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree;" for Sir Timothy was rich. Others had laughed, and said that Sir Timothy was determined that his heirs should be able to boast some of the bluest blood in Scotland on their mother's side,—but that he might have waited a little longer for his bride.

She was so young, barely seventeen years old, and so very lovely, that John Crewys had felt indignant with Sir Timothy, whose appearance and manner did not attract him. He was reminded that the bride owed almost everything she possessed in the world to her husband, but he was not pacified.

The glance of the gay blue eyes,—the laugh on the curved young mouth,—the glint of gold on the sunny brown hair,—had played havoc with John's honest heart. He had not a penny in the world at that time, and could not have married her if he would; but from Lady Mary's wedding he carried away in his breast an image—an ideal—which had perhaps helped to keep him unwed during these later years of his successful career.

Why did she look so sad?

John's kind heart had melted somewhat towards Sir Timothy, when the poor gentleman had sought him in his chambers on the previous day, and appealed to him for help in his extremity. He was sorry for his cousin, in spite of the pompousness and arrogance with which Sir Timothy unconsciously did his best to alienate even those whom he most desired to attract.

He had come to Devonshire, at great inconvenience to himself, in response to that appeal; and in his hurry, and his sympathy for his cousin's trouble, he had scarcely given a thought to the momentary romance connected with his first and only meeting with Lady Mary. Yet now, behold, after nineteen years, the look on her sweet face thrilled his middle-aged bosom as it had thrilled his young manhood. John smiled or thought he smiled, as he came forward to be presented once more to Sir Timothy's wife; but he was, nevertheless, rather pleased to find that he had not outgrown the power of being thus romantically attracted.

"I hope I'm not late," said the soft voice. "You see, no one expected Sir Timothy to come home so soon, and I was out. Is that Cousin John? We met once before, at my wedding. You have not changed a bit; I remember you quite well," said Lady Mary. She came forward and held out two welcoming hands to her visitor.

John Crewys bowed over those little white hands, and became suddenly conscious that his vague, romantic sentiment had given place to a very real emotion—an almost passionate anxiety to shield one so fair and gentle from the trouble which was threatening her, and of which, as he knew, she was perfectly unconscious.

The warmth of her impulsive welcome did not, of course, escape the keen eyes of the sisters-in-law, which, in such matters as these, were quite undimmed by age.

"Why didn't somebody pour out tea?" said Lady Mary.

"We know your rights, Mary," said Miss Crewys. "Never shall it be said that dear Timothy's sisters ousted his wife from her proper place, because she did not happen to be present to occupy it."

"Besides," said Lady Belstone, "you have, no doubt, some excellent reason, my love, for the delay."

Lady Mary's blue eyes, glancing at John, said quite plainly and beseechingly to his understanding, "They are old, and rather cranky, but they don't mean to be unkind. Do forgive them;" and John smiled reassuringly.

"I'm afraid I haven't much excuse to offer," she said ingenuously. "I was out late, and I tired myself; and then I heard Sir Timothy had come back, so I went to see him. And then I made haste to change my dress, and it took a long time—and that's all."

The three gentlemen laughed forgivingly at this explanation, and the two ladies exchanged shocked glances.

"Our cousin John did his best to entertain us, and we him," said Lady
Belstone, stiffly.

"His best—and how good that must be!" said Lady Mary, with pretty spirit. "The great counsel whose eloquence is listened to with breathless attention in crowded courts, and read at every breakfast-table in England."

"That is a very delightful picture of the life of a briefless barrister," said John Crewys, smiling.

"Mary," said Miss Crewys, in lowered tones of reproof, "I understood that divorce cases, unhappily, occupied the greater part of our cousin John's attention."

"We've heard of you, nevertheless—we've heard of you, Mr. Crewys," said the canon, nervously interposing, "even in this out-of-the-way corner of the west."

"But there is one breakfast-table, at least, in England, where divorce cases are not perused, and that is my brother Timothy's breakfast-table," said Lady Belstone, very distinctly.

John hastened to fill up the awkward pause which ensued, by a reference to the beauty of the hall.

"I'm afraid we don't live up to our beautiful old house," said Lady Mary, shaking her head. "There are some lovely things stored away in the gallery upstairs, and some beautiful pictures hanging there, including the Vandyck, you know, which Charles II. gave to old Sir Peter, your cavalier ancestor. But the gallery is almost a lumber-room, for the floor is too unsafe to walk upon. And down here, as you see, we are terribly Philistine."

"This hall was furnished by my grandmother for her son's marriage," said Miss Crewys.

"And she sent all your great-grandmother's treasures to the attics," said Lady Mary, with rather a wilful intonation. "I always long to bring them to light again, and to make this place livable; but my husband does not like change."

"Dear Timothy is faithful to the past," said Miss Crewys, majestically.

"I wish old Lady Crewys had been as faithful," said Lady Mary, shrugging her shoulders.

"Young people always like changes," said Lady Belstone, more leniently.

"Young people!" said Lady Mary, with a rather pathetic smile. "John will think you are laughing at me. Am I to be young still at five-and-thirty?"

"To be sure," said John, "unless you are going to be so unkind as to make a man only ten years your senior feel elderly."

Miss Crewys interposed with a simple statement. "In my day, the age of a lady was never referred to in polite conversation. Least of all by herself. I never allude to mine."

"You are unmarried, Georgina," said Lady Belstone, unexpectedly turning upon her ally. "Unmarried ladies are always sensitive on the subject of age. I am sure I do not care who knows that my poor admiral was twenty years my senior. And his age can be looked up in any book of reference. It would have been useless to try and conceal it,—a man so well known."

"A woman is as old as she looks," said the canon, soothingly, for the annoyance of Miss Crewys was visible. "I am bound to say that Miss Crewys looks exactly the same as when I first knew her."

"Of course, a spinster escapes the wear and tear of matrimony," said
Miss Crewys, glaring at her widowed relative.

"H'm, h'm!" said Dr. Blundell. "By-the-by, have you inspected the old picture gallery, Mr. Crewys?"

"Not yet," said John.

Lady Belstone shot a glance of speechless indignation at her sister. Sympathy between them was immediately restored. Prompt action was necessary on the part of the family, or this presumptuous physician would be walking round the house to show John Crewys the portraits of his own ancestors.

"I shall be delighted to show our cousin the pictures in the gallery and in the dining-room," said Miss Crewys, "if my sister Isabella will accompany me, and if Lady Mary has no objections."

"You are very kind," said John. He rose and walked to a small rosewood cabinet of curios. "I see there are some beautiful miniatures here."

"Oh, those do not belong to the family."

"They are Setoun things—some of the few that came to me," said Lady
Mary, rather timidly. "I am afraid they would not interest you."

"Not interest me! But indeed I care only too much for such things," said John. "Here is a Cosway, and, unless I very much mistake, a Plimer,—and an Engleheart."

Lady Mary unlocked the cabinet with pretty eagerness, and put a small morocco case into his hands.

"Then here is something you will like to see."

For a moment John did not understand. He glanced quickly from the row of tiny, pearl-framed, old-world portraits, of handsome nobles and rose-tinted court dames, to the very indifferent modern miniature he held.

The portrait of a schoolboy,—an Eton boy with a long nose and small, grey eyes, and an expression distinctly rather sulky and lowering than open or pleasing. Not a stupid face, however, by any means.

"It is my boy—Peter," said Lady Mary, softly.

To her the face was something more than beautiful. She looked up at
John with a happy certainty of his interest in her son.

"Here he is again, when he was younger. He was a pretty little fellow then, as you see."

"Very pretty. But not very like you," said John, scarcely knowing what he said.

He was strangely moved and touched by her evident confidence in his sympathy, though his artistic tastes were outraged by the two portraits she asked him to admire. He reflected that women were very extraordinary creatures; ready to be pleased with anything Providence might care to bestow upon them in the shape of a child, even cross-looking boys with long noses and small eyes. The heir of Barracombe resembled his aunts rather than his parents.

"He is a thorough Crewys; not a bit like me. All the Setouns are fair, I believe. Peter is very dark. He is such a big fellow now; taller than I am. I sometimes wish," said Lady Mary, laying the miniature on the table as though she could not bear to shut it away immediately, "that one's children never grew up. They are such darlings when they are little, and they are bound, of course, to disappoint one sometimes as they grow older."

John Crewys felt almost murderously inclined towards Peter. So the young cub had presumed to disappoint his mother as he grew older! How dared he?

Poor Lady Mary was quite unconscious of the feelings with which he gazed at the little case in his hand.

"Not that my boy has ever really disappointed me—yet," she said, with her pretty apologetic laugh. "I only mean that, in the course of human nature, it's bound to come, now and then."

"No doubt," said John, gently.

Then she allowed him to examine the rest of the cabinet, whilst she talked on, always of Peter—his horsemanship and his shooting and his prowess in every kind of sport and game.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, Lady Belstone was holding a hurried consultation with her sister.

"How thoughtless you are, Georgina, asking our cousin into the dining-room just when Ash must be laying the cloth for dinner. He will be sadly put about."

"Dear, dear, it quite slipped my memory, Isabella."

"You have no head at all, Georgina."

"Can I frame an excuse?" said Miss Crewys, piteously, "or will he think it discourteous?"

"Leave it to me, Georgina," said Lady Belstone, with the air of a diplomat. "Mary, my love!"

Lady Mary started. "Yes, Isabella."

"Georgina has very properly recalled to me that candles and lamps make a very poor light for viewing the family portraits. You know, my love, the Vandyck is so very dark and black. She proposes, therefore, with your permission, to act as our cousin's cicerone to-morrow morning, in the daytime. Shall we say—at eleven o'clock, John?"

Canon Birch started nervously, and the doctor frowned at him.

"At eleven o'clock," said John, in steady tones; and, as he spoke, Sir
Timothy entered the hall.

CHAPTER IV

"Some tea, Timothy?" said Lady Mary.

"If you please, my dear," said Sir Timothy, dropping his letters into the box.

"I am afraid the tea will be little better than poison, brother," said
Lady Belstone, in warning tones; "it has stood so long."

"Perhaps dear Mary intends to order fresh tea, Isabella," said Miss
Crewys.

"It hasn't stood so very long," said Lady Mary, looking appealingly at Sir Timothy; "and you know Ash is always cross if we order fresh tea."

"Excuse me, my love," said Miss Crewys. "I am the last to wish to trouble poor Ash unnecessarily, but the tea waited for ten minutes before you came down."

"My dear Mary," said Sir Timothy, "will you never learn to be punctual? No; I will take it as it is. Poor Ash has enough to do, as Georgina truly says."

Lady Mary sighed rather impatiently, and it occurred to John Crewys that Sir Timothy spoke to his wife exactly as he might have addressed a troublesome child. His tone was gentler than usual, but this John did not know.

"I should have liked to take a turn about the grounds with you," said Sir Timothy to his cousin, "if it had been possible; but I am afraid it is getting too dark now."

"Surely there will be time enough to-morrow morning for that, brother," said Lady Belstone.

Sir Timothy had walked to the oriel window, but he turned away as he answered her.

"I may be otherwise occupied to-morrow."

"But I hope the opportunity may arise before very long," said John, cheerfully. "I should like to explore these woods."

"You will have to come with me, then," said Lady Mary, smiling. "Timothy hates walking uphill, and I should love to show our beautiful views to a stranger."

"I do not like you to tire yourself, my dear," said Sir Timothy.

"A walk through Barracombe woods means simply a climb, Mary," said
Lady Belstone; "and you are not strong."

"I am perfectly robust, Isabella. Do allow me at least the use of my limbs," said Lady Mary, impatiently.

"No woman, certainly no lady, can be called robust," said Miss
Crewys, severely.

The sudden clanging of a bell changed the conversation.

"Visitors. How tiresome!" said Lady Mary.

"My dear Mary!" said Sir Timothy.

"But I know it can't be anybody pleasant, Timothy," said his wife, with rather a mischievous twinkle, "for I owe calls to all the nice people, and it's only the dull ones who come over and over again."

"You owe calls, Mary!" said Lady Belstone, in horrified tones.

"I am afraid," said Miss Crewys, considerately lowering her voice as the butler and footman crossed the hall to the outer vestibule, "that dear Mary is more than a little remiss in civility to her neighbours."

"My dear admiral never permitted me to postpone returning a call for more than a week. Royalty, he always said, the same day; ordinary people within a week," said Lady Belstone.

"When royalty calls I certainly will return the visit the same day," said Lady Mary, petulantly. "But I cannot spend my whole life driving along the high-roads from one house to another. I hate driving, as you know, Isabella."

"What did Providence create carriages for but to be driven in?" said
Lady Belstone.

"You will give John a wrong impression of our worthy neighbours, Mary," said Sir Timothy, pompously. "Personally, I am always glad to see them."

"But you don't have to return their calls, Timothy," said Lady Mary.

The canon inadvertently laughed. Sir Timothy looked annoyed. Miss
Crewys whispered to Lady Belstone, unheard save by the doctor—

"How very odd and flippant poor Mary is to-night—worse than usual!
What can it be?"

"It is just the presence of a strange gentleman that is upsetting her, poor thing," said her sister, in the same whisper. "Her head is easily turned. We had better take no notice."

The doctor muttered something emphatic beneath his breath.

"Mrs. and Miss Hewel," said Ash, advancing into the hall.

"Is it only you and Sarah, after all? What a relief! I thought it was visitors," cried Lady Mary, coming forward to greet them very kindly and warmly. "Did you come across in the ferry?"

"No, indeed. You know how I dislike the ferry. I have the long drive home still before me. But we were so close to Barracombe, at the Gilberts' tea-party. I thought we should be certain to meet you there," said Mrs. Hewel, in rather reproachful tones. "Sarah, of course, wanted to go back in the ferry, but I am always doubly frightened at night—and in one's best clothes. It was quite a large party."

"I'm afraid I forgot all about it," said Lady Mary, with a conscience-stricken glance at her husband.

"I hope you sent the carriage round to the stables?" said Sir Timothy.

"No, no; we mustn't stop a minute. But I couldn't help just popping in—so very long since I've seen you—and all this happening at once," said Mrs. Hewel. She was a large, stout woman, with breathless manner and plaintive voice. "And I wanted to show you Sarah in her first grown-up clothes, and tell you about her too," she added.

"Bless me!" said Sir Timothy. "You don't mean to say little Sarah is grown up."

"Oh yes, dear Sir Timothy; she grew up the day before yesterday," said
Mrs. Hewel.

"Sharp work," said the doctor, grimly.

"I mean, of course, she turned up her hair, and let her dresses down. It's full early, I know, but it's such a chance for Sarah—that's partly what I came about. After the trouble she's been all her life to me, and all—just going to that excellent school in Germany—here's my aunt wanting to adopt her, or as good as adopt her—Lady Tintern, you know."

Everybody who knew Mrs. Hewel knew also that Lady Tintern was her aunt; and Lady Tintern was a very great lady indeed.

"She is to come out this very season; that is why I took her to the Gilberts', to prepare her for the great plunge," said Mrs. Hewel, not intending to be funny. "It will be a change for Sarah, such a hoyden as she has always been. But my aunt won't wait once she has got a fancy into her head; though the child is only seventeen."

"At seventeen I was still in the nursery, playing with my dolls," said Lady Belstone.

"Oh, Lady Belstone!" said an odd, deep, protesting voice.

John looked with amused interest at the speaker. The unlucky Sarah had taken a low chair beside her hostess, and was holding one of the soft white hands in her plump gloved fingers.

Sarah Hewel's adoration for Lady Mary dated from the days when she had been ferried over the Youle with her nurse, to play with Peter, in his chubby childhood. Peter had often been cross and always tyrannical, but it was so wonderful to find a playmate who was naughtier than herself, that Sarah had secretly admired Peter. She was the black sheep of her own family, and in continual disgrace for lesser crimes than he daily committed with impunity. But her admiration of Peter was tame and pale beside her admiration of Lady Mary. A mother who never scolded, who told no tales, who petted black sheep when they were bruised and torn or stained entirely through their own wickedness, who could always be depended on for kisses and bonbons and fairy-tales, seemed more angelic than human to poor little Sarah; whose own mother was wrapt up in her two irreproachable sons, and had small affection to spare for an ugly, tiresome little girl.

Sarah, however, had slowly but surely struggled out of the ugliness of her childhood; and John Crewys, regarding her critically in the lamplight, decided she would develop, one of these days, into a very handsome young woman; in spite of an ungainly stoop, a wide mouth that pouted rather too much, and a nose that inclined saucily upwards.

Her colouring was fresh, even brilliant—the bright rose, and creamy tint that sometimes accompanies vivid red hair—and of a vivid, uncompromising red were the locks that crowned Miss Sarah's little head, and shaded her blue-veined temples.

Miss Crewys had, in consequence, long ago pronounced her to be a positive fright; and Lady Belstone had declared that such hair would prove an insuperable obstacle to her chances of getting a husband.

"I know she's very young," said Mrs. Hewel, glancing apologetically at her offspring. "But what can I do? There's no going against Lady Tintern; and at seventeen she ought to be something more than a tomboy, after all."

"You were married at seventeen, weren't you?" said Sarah to Lady Mary, in her deep, almost tragic voice—a voice that commanded attention, though it came oddly from her girlish chest.

"Sarah!" said Mrs. Hewel.

Lady Mary started and smiled. "Me? Yes, Sarah; I was married at seventeen."

"Mamma says nobody can be married properly—before they're one and twenty. I knew it was rot," said Sarah, triumphantly.

"Miss Sarah retains the outspokenness of her recently discarded childhood, I perceive," said Sir Timothy, stiffly.

"Sarah!" said her mother, indignantly, "I said not unless they had their parents' consent. I was not thinking of Lady Mary, as you know very well."

"Your people didn't say you were too young to marry at seventeen, did they?" said Sarah, caressing Lady Mary's hand.

Lady Mary smiled at her, but shook her head. "You want to know too much, Sarah."

"Oh, I forgot," said Sarah the artless. "Sir Timothy was your guardian, so, of course, there was nobody to stop his marrying you if he liked. I suppose you had to do what he told you."

"Oh, Sarah, will you cease chattering?" cried her mother.

"I hope you have good news of your sons in South Africa, Mrs. Hewel," said the canon, briskly advancing to the rescue.

Mrs. Hewel's voice changed. "Thank you, canon; they were all right when we heard last. Tom is in Natal, so I feel happier about him; but Willie, of course, is in the thick of it all—and the news to-day—isn't reassuring."

"But you are proud of them both," said Lady Mary, softly. "Every mother must be proud to have sons able and willing to fight for their country."

"We may feel differently concerning the justice of this war," said Sir Timothy, clearing his throat; and Lady Mary shrugged her shoulders, whilst the canon jumped from his chair, and sat meekly down again on catching the doctor's eye.

"But in our sympathy with our brave soldiers we are all one, Mrs.
Hewel."

Sarah sprang forward. "You don't mean to say you're still a pro-Boer, Sir Timothy?" she exclaimed. "Well, mamma—talking of the justice of the war—when Tom and Willie are risking their lives"—she broke into a sudden sob—"and now Peter—"

"Peter!" said Lady Mary.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Sarah, running to her friend. "I didn't mean to hurt you—talking of the war—and—and the boys—when you must be thinking only of Peter." She wrung her hands together piteously.

"Of Peter!" Lady Mary repeated.

"We only heard to-day," said Mrs. Hewel, "and came in hoping for more details. My cousin George, who is also going out with Lord Ferries, happened to mention in his letter that Peter had joined the corps."

"I think I can explain how the mistake arose," said Sir Timothy, stiffly. "Peter wrote for permission to join, and I refused. My son is fortunately too young to be of any use in a contest I regard with horror."

"But Cousin George was helping Peter to get his kit, because they were to sail at such short notice," cried Sarah.

"Sarah," said her mother, in breathless indignation, "will you be silent?"

"What does this mean, Timothy?" said Lady Mary, trembling.

She stood by the centre table; and the hanging lamp above shed its light on her brown hair, and flashed in her blue eyes, and from the diamond ring she wore.

The doctor rose from his chair.

"I am at a loss to understand," said Sir Timothy.

"It means," said Sarah, half-hysterically,—"oh, can't you see what it means? It just means that Peter is going to South Africa, whether you like it or not."

"There must be some mistake, of course," said Mrs. Hewel, in distressed tones. "And yet—George's letter was so very clear."

Dr. Blundell touched the canon's arm.

"Shall I—must I—" whispered the canon, nervously.

"There is no help for it," said the doctor. He was looking at Lady Mary as he spoke. Her face was deathly; her little frail hand grasped the table.

"Sir Timothy," said the canon, "I—I have a communication to make to you."

"On this subject?" said Sir Timothy.

"A letter from Peter."

"Why did you not say so earlier?" said Sir Timothy, harshly.

"I will explain, if you will kindly give me five minutes in the study."

"A letter from Peter," said Lady Mary, "and not—to me."

She looked round at them all with a little vacant smile.

John Crewys, who knew nothing of Peter's letter, had already grasped the situation. He divined also that Lady Mary was fighting piteously against the conviction that Sarah's news was true.

"How could we guess you did not know?" said Mrs. Hewel, almost weeping.

"I am still in the dark," said Sir Timothy, coldly.

"Birch will explain at once," said the doctor, impatiently.

"Peter writes—asking me,—I am sure I don't know why he pitched upon me,—to—break the news to you, that he has joined Lord Ferries' Horse; feeling it his—his duty to his country to do so," said the unhappy canon, folding and unfolding the letter he held, with agitated fingers.

"I knew there would be a satisfactory explanation," said Mrs. Hewel, tearfully. "Dear Lady Mary, having so inadvertently anticipated Peter's letter, there is only one thing left for me to do. I must at least leave you and Sir Timothy in peace to read it. Come, Sarah."

"Allow me to put you into your carriage," said Sir Timothy, in a voice of iron.

Sarah followed them to the door, paused irresolutely, and stole back to Lady Mary's side.

"Say you're not angry with me, dear, beautiful Lady Mary," she whispered passionately. "Do say you're not angry. I didn't know it would make you so unhappy. It was partly my fault for telling Peter in the holidays that only old men, invalids, and—and cowards—were shirking South Africa. I thought you'd be glad, like me, that Peter should go and fight like all the other boys."

"Sarah," said Dr. Blundell, gently, "don't you see that Lady Mary can't attend to you now? Come away, like a good girl."

He took her arm, and led her out of the hall; and Sarah forgot she had grown up the day before yesterday, and sobbed loudly as she went away.

Lady Mary lifted the miniature from the table, and looked at it without a word; but from the sofa, the two old sisters babbled audibly to each other.

"I always said, Isabella, that if poor Mary spoilt Peter so terribly, something would happen to him."

"What sad nonsense you talk, Georgina. Nothing has happened to him—yet."

"He has defied his father, Isabella."

"He has obeyed his country's call, Georgina. Had the admiral been alive, he would certainly have volunteered."

John Crewys made an involuntary step forward and placed himself between the sofa and the table, as though to shield Lady Mary from their observation, but he could not prevent their words from reaching her ears.

She whispered to him very softly. "Will you get the letter for me? I want to see—for myself—what—what Peter says."

"Go quietly into the library," said John, bending over her for a moment. "I will bring it you there immediately."

She obeyed him without a word.

John turned to the sofa. "I beg your pardon, canon," he said courteously, "but Lady Mary cannot bear this suspense. Allow me to take her son's letter to her at once."

"I—I am only waiting for Sir Timothy. It is to him I have to break the news; though, of course, there is nothing that Lady Mary may not know," said the canon, in a polite but flurried tone. "I really should not like—"

"My brother must see it first," said Miss Crewys, decidedly.

"Exactly. I am sure Sir Timothy would not be pleased if—Bless my soul!"

For John, with a slight bow of apology, and his grave air of authority, had quietly taken the letter from the canon's undecided fingers, and walked away with it into the library.

"How very oddly our cousin John behaves!" said Lady Belstone, indignantly. "Almost snatching the letter from your hand."

"Depend upon it, Mary inspired his action," said Miss Crewys, angrily. "I saw her whispering away to him. A man she never set eyes on before."

"Pray are we not to hear the contents?" said Lady Belstone, quivering with indignation.

"I suppose he thinks Lady Mary should make the communication herself to Sir Timothy," gasped the canon. "I am sure I have no desire to fulfil so unpleasing a task. Still, the matter was entrusted to me. However, the main substance has been told; there can be no further secret about it. My only care was that Sir Timothy should not be unduly agitated."

"It is a comfort to find that some one can consider the feelings of our poor brother," said Miss Crewys.

"Do give me your arm to the drawing-room, canon," said Lady Belstone, rightly judging that the canon would reveal the whole contents of Peter's letter to her more easily in private. "The shock has made me feel quite faint. You, too, Georgina, are looking pale."

"It is not the shock, but the draught, which is affecting me, Isabella,—Sir Timothy thoughtlessly keeping the door open so long. I will accompany you to the drawing-room."

"But Sir Timothy may want me," said the canon, uneasily.

"Bless the man! they've got the letter itself, what can they want with you?" said her ladyship, vigorously propelling her supporter out of reach of possible interruption. "Close the door behind us, Georgina, I beg, or that odious doctor will be racing after us."

"He takes far too much upon himself. I have no idea of permitting country apothecaries to be so familiar," said Miss Crewys.

CHAPTER V

Lady Mary, coming from the library with the letter in her hand, met her husband in the hall.

"Timothy!"

She looked at him wistfully. Her face was very pale as she gave him the letter. Sir Timothy took out his glasses, wiped them deliberately, and put them on.

"Never mind reading it. I can tell you in one word," she said, trembling with impatience. "My boy is sailing for South Africa to-morrow morning."

"I prefer," said Sir Timothy, "to read the letter for myself."

"Oh, do be quick!" she said, half under her breath.

But he read it slowly twice, and folded it. He was really thunderstruck. Peter was accustomed to write polite platitudes to his parent, and had presumably not intended that his letter to the canon should be actually read by Sir Timothy, when he had asked that the contents of it should be broken to him.

"Selfish, disobedient, headstrong, deceitful boy!" said Sir Timothy.

Lady Mary started. "How can you talk so!" Her gentle voice sounded almost fierce. "At least he has proved himself a man.' And he is right. It was a shame and a disgrace for him to stay at home, whilst his comrades did their duty. I say it a thousand times, though I am his mother."

Then she broke down. "Oh, Peter, my boy, my boy, how could you leave me without a word!"

"Perhaps this step was taken with your connivance after all?" said Sir Timothy, suspiciously. He could not follow her rapid changes of mood, and had listened resentfully to her defence of her son.

"Timothy!" said Lady Mary, trembling, "when have I ever been disloyal to you in word or deed?"

"Never, I hope," said Sir Timothy. His voice shook a little. "I do not doubt you for a moment, Mary. But you spoke with such strange vehemence, so unlike your usual propriety of manner."

She broke into a wild laugh which pained and astonished him.

"Did I? I must have forgotten myself for a moment."

"You must, indeed. Pray be calm. I understand that this must be a terrible shock to you."

"It is not a shock," said Lady Mary, defiantly. "I glory in it. I—I wish him to go. Oh, Peter, my darling!"

She hid her face in her hands.

"It would be more to the purpose," said Sir Timothy, "to consider what is to be done."

"Could we stop him?" she cried eagerly, and then changed once more.
"No, no; I wouldn't if I could. He would never forgive me."

"Of course, we cannot stop him," said Sir Timothy. He raised his voice as he was wont when he was angry. Canon Birch, in the drawing-room, heard the loud threatening tones, and was thankful for the door which shut him from Sir Timothy's presence. "He has laid his plans for thwarting my known wishes too well. I do not know what might be said if we stopped him. I—I won't have my name made a laughing-stock. I am a Crewys, and the honour of the family lies in my hands. I can't give the world a right to suspect a Crewys of cowardice, by preventing his departure on active service. We have fought before—in a better cause."

"We won't discuss the cause," said Lady Mary, gently. When Sir Timothy began to shout, she always grew calm. "Then you will not telegraph to my cousin Ferries?"

"Ferries ought to have written to me, and not taken the word of a mere boy, like Peter," stormed Sir Timothy. "But the fact is, I never flattered Ferries as he expected; it is not my way to natter any one; and consequently he took a dislike to me. He must have known what my views are. I am sure he did it on purpose."

"It was natural he should believe Peter, and I don't think he knows you well enough to dislike you," said Lady Mary, simply. "He has only seen you twice, Timothy."

"That was evidently sufficient," said Sir Timothy, meaning to be ironical, and unaware that he was stating a plain fact. "I shall certainly not telegraph to tell him that my son has lied to him, well as Peter deserves that I should do so."

"Oh, don't, don't; you are so hard!" she said piteously. "If you'd only listened to him when he implored you to let him go, we could have made his last days at home all they should be. He's been hiding in London, poor Peter; getting his outfit by stealth, ashamed, whilst other boys are being fêted and praised by their people, proud of earning so early their right to be considered men. And—and he's only a boy. And he said himself, all's fair in love and war. Indeed, Timothy, it is an exceptional case."

"Mary, your weakness is painful, and your idolatry of Peter will bring its own punishment. The part of his deception that should pain you most is the want of heart he has displayed," said Sir Timothy, bitterly.

"And doesn't it?" she said, with a pathetic smile. "But one oughtn't to expect too much heart from a boy, ought one? It's—it's not a healthy sign. You said once you were glad he wasn't sentimental, like me."

"I should have wished him to exhibit proper feeling on proper occasions. His present triumph over my authority involves his departure to certain danger and possible death, without even affording us the opportunity of bidding him farewell. He is ready and willing to leave us thus."

Lady Mary uttered a stifled scream. "But I won't let him. How can you think his mother will let him go like that?"

"How can you help it?"

She pressed her trembling hands to her forehead. "I will think. There is a way. There are plenty of ways. I can drive to the junction—it's not much further than Brawnton—and catch the midnight express, and get to Southampton by daybreak. I know it can be done. Ash will look out the trains. Why do you look at me like that? You're not going to stop my going, are you? You're not going to try and stop me, are you? For you won't succeed. Oh yes, I know I've been an obedient wife, Timothy. But I—I defied you once before for Peter's sake; when he was such a little boy, and you wanted to punish him—don't you remember?"

"Don't talk so, Mary," said Sir Timothy, almost soothingly. Her vehemence really alarmed and distressed him. "It is not like you to talk like this. You will be sorry—afterwards," he said; and his voice softened.

She responded instantly. She came closer to him, and took his big shaking hand into her gentle clasp.

"I should be sorry afterwards," she said, "and so would you. Even you would be sorry, Timothy, if anything happened to Peter. I'll try and not make any more excuses for him, if you like. I know he's not a child now. He's almost a man; and men seem to me to grow harsh and unloving as they grow older. I try, now and then, to shut my eyes and see him as he once was; but all the time I know that the little boy who used to be Peter has gone away for ever and ever and ever. If he had died when he was little he would always have been my little boy, wouldn't he? But, thank God, he didn't die. He's going to be a great strong man, and a brave soldier, and—and all I've ever wanted him to be—when he's got over these wilful days of boyhood. But he mustn't go without his father's blessing and his mother's kiss."

"He has chosen to do so, Mary," said Sir Timothy, coldly.

She clung to him caressingly. "But you're going to forgive him before he goes, Timothy. There's no time to be angry before he goes. It may be too late to-morrow."

"It may be too late to-morrow," repeated Sir Timothy, heavily.

He resented, in a dull, self-pitying fashion, the fact that his wife's thoughts were so exclusively fixed on Peter, in her ignorance of his own more immediate danger.

"Don't think I'm blind to his faults," urged Lady Mary, "only I can laugh at them better than you can, because I know all the while that at the very bottom of his heart he's only my baby Peter after all. He's not—God bless him—he's not the dreary, cold-blooded, priggish boy he sometimes pretends to be. Don't remember him like that now, Timothy. Think of that morning in June—that glorious, sunny morning in June, when you knelt by the open window in my room and thanked God because you had a son. Think of that other summer day when we couldn't bear even to look at the roses because little Peter was so ill, and we were afraid he was going back to heaven."

Her soft, rapid words touched Sir Timothy to a vague feeling of pity for her, and for Peter, and for himself. But the voice of the charmer, charm she never so wisely, had no power, after all, to dispel the dark cloud that was hanging over him.

The sorrow gave way to a keener anxiety. The calmness of mind which the great surgeon had prescribed—the placid courage, largely aided by dulness of imagination, which had enabled poor Sir Timothy to keep in the very background of his thoughts all apprehensions for the morrow—where were they?

He repressed with an effort the emotion which threatened to master him, and forced himself to be calm. When he spoke again his voice sounded not much less measured and pompous than usual.

"My dear, you are agitating yourself and me. Let us confine ourselves to the subject in hand."

Lady Mary dropped the unresponsive hand she held so warmly pressed between her own, and stepped back.

"Ah, forgive me!" she said in clear tones. "It's so difficult to—"

"To—?"

"To be exactly what you wish. To be always on guard. My feelings broke bounds for once."

"Calm yourself," said Sir Timothy. "And besides, so far as I am concerned, your pleading for Peter is unnecessary."

"You have forgiven him?" she cried joyfully, yet almost incredulously.

He paused, and then said with solemnity: "I have forgiven him, Mary. It is not the moment for me to cherish resentment, least of all against my only son."

"Ah, thank God! Then you will come to Southampton?"

"That is impossible. But I will telegraph my forgiveness and the blessing which he has not sought that he may receive it before the ship sails."

"I am grateful to you for doing even so much as that, Timothy, and for not being angry. Then I must go alone?"

"No, no."

"Understand me," said Lady Mary, in a low voice, "for I am in earnest. I have never deceived you. I will not defy you in secret, like Peter; but I will go and bid my only son God-speed, though the whole world conspired to prevent me. I will go!"

There was a pause.

"You speak," said Sir Timothy, resentfully, "as though I had habitually thwarted your wishes."

"Oh, no," said his wife, softly, "you never even found out what they were."

He did not notice the words; it is doubtful whether he heard them.

"It has been my best endeavour to promote your happiness throughout our married life, Mary, so far as I considered it compatible with your highest welfare. I do not pretend I can enter into the high-flown and romantic feelings engendered by your reprehensible habit of novel-reading."

"You've scolded me so often for that," said Lady Mary, half mockingly, half sadly. "Can't we—keep to the subject in hand, as you said just now?"

"I have a reason, a strong reason," said Sir Timothy, "for wishing you to remain at home to-morrow. I had hoped, by concealing it from you, to spare you some of the painful suspense and anxiety which I am myself experiencing."

Lady Mary laughed.

"How like a man to suppose a woman is spared anything by being kept in the dark! I knew something was wrong. Dr. Blundell and Canon Birch are in your confidence, I presume? They kept exchanging glances like two mysterious owls. Your sisters are not, or they would be sighing and shaking their heads. And John—John Crewys? Oh, he is a lawyer. When does a visitor ever come here except on business? He has something to do with it. Ah, to advise you for nothing over your purchase of the Crown lands! You have got into some difficulty over that, or something of the kind? You brought him down here for some special purpose, I am sure; but I did not know him well enough, and I knew you too well, to ask why."

"Mary, what has come to you? I never knew you quite like this before.
I dislike this extraordinary flippancy of tone very much."

"I beg your pardon," said Lady Mary; make allowance for me this once. I learnt ten minutes ago that my boy was going to the war. I must either laugh or—or cry, and you wouldn't like me to do that; but it's a way women have when their hearts are half broken."

"I don't understand you," he said helplessly.

Lady Mary looked at him as though she had awakened, frightened, to the consciousness of her own temerity.

"I don't quite understand myself, I think," she said, in a subdued voice. "I won't torment you any more, Timothy; I will be as calm and collected—as you wish. Only let me go."

"Will you not listen to my reason for wishing you to remain at home?" he said sternly. "It is an important one."

"I had forgotten," she said indifferently. "How can there be any business in the world half so important to me as seeing my boy once more before he sails?"

The colour of Sir Timothy's ruddy face deepened almost to purple, his grey eyes glowered sullen resentment at his wife.

"Since you desire to have your way in opposition to my wishes, go!" he thundered. "I will not hinder you further."

But his sonorous wrath was too familiar to be impressive.

Lady Mary's expression scarcely changed when Sir Timothy raised his voice. She turned, however, at the foot of the staircase, and spoke to him again.

"Let me just go and give the order for my things to be packed, Timothy, and tell Ash to go and find out about the trains, and I will return and listen to whatever you wish—I will, indeed. I could not pay proper attention to anything until I knew that was being done."

Sir Timothy did not trust himself to speak. He bowed his head, and the slender figure passed swiftly up the stairs.

Sir Timothy walked twice deliberately up and down the empty hall, and felt his pulse. The slow, steady throb reassured him. He opened the door of the study.

"John," said Sir Timothy, "would you kindly come out here and speak to me for a moment? Dr. Blundell, would you have the goodness to await me a little longer? You will find the London papers there."

"I have them," said Dr. Blundell, from the armchair by the study fire.

John Crewys closed the door behind him, and looked rather anxiously at his cousin. It struck him that Sir Timothy had lost some of his ruddy colour, and that his face looked drawn and old.

But the squire placed himself with his back to the log fire, and made an effort to speak in his voice of everyday. His slightly pompous, patronizing manner returned upon him.

"You are doubtless accustomed, John, in the course of your professional work," he said, "to advise in difficult matters. You come among us a stranger—and unprejudiced. Will you—er—give me the benefit of your opinion?"

"To the best of my ability," said John. He paused, and added gently,
"I am sorry for this fresh trouble that has come upon you."

"That is the subject on which I mean to consult you. Do you consider that—that her husband or her child should stand first in a woman's eyes?"

"Her husband, undoubtedly," said John, readily, "but—"

"But what?" said Sir Timothy, impatiently. A gleam of satisfaction had broken over his heavy face at his cousin's reply.

"I speak from a man's point of view," said John. "Woman—and possibly
Nature—may speak differently."

"Your judgment, however, coincides with mine, which is all that matters," said Sir Timothy. He did not perceive the twinkle in John's eyes at this reply. "In my opinion there are only two ways of looking at every question—the right way and the wrong way."

"My profession teaches me," said John, "that there are as many different points of view as there are parties to a case."

"Then—from my point of view," said Sir Timothy, with an air of waving all other points of view away as irrelevant, "since my wife, very naturally, desires to see her son again before he sails, am I justified in allowing her to set off in ignorance of the ordeal that awaits me?"

"Good heavens, no!" cried John. "Should the operation prove unsuccessful, you would be entailing upon her a lifelong remorse."

"I did not look upon it in that light," said Sir Timothy, rather stiffly. "The propriety or the impropriety of her going remains in any, case the same, whether the operation succeeds or fails. I feared that it would be the wrong thing to allow her to go at all; that it might cause comment were she absent from my side at such a critical juncture."

"I see," said John. His mobile, expressive face and bright hazel eyes seemed to light up for one instant with scorn and wonder; then he recollected himself. "It is natural you should wish for her sustaining presence, no doubt," he said.

"I trust you do not suppose that I should be selfishly considering my own personal feelings at such a time," said Sir Timothy, in a lofty tone of reproof. "I am only desirous of doing what is right in the matter. I am asking your advice because I feel that my self-command has been shaken considerably by this unexpected blow. I am less sure of my judgment than usual in consequence. However, if you think my wife ought to be told"—John nodded very decidedly—"let her be told. I am bound to say Dr. Blundell thought so too, though his opinion is neither here nor there in such a matter, but so long as you understand that my only desire is that both she and I should do what is most correct and proper." He came closer to John. "It is of vital importance for me to preserve my composure," said Sir Timothy. "I am not fitted for—for any kind of scene just now. Will you undertake for me the task of explaining to—to my dear wife the situation in which I am placed?"

"I will do my best," said John. He was touched by the note of piteous anxiety which had crept into the squire's harsh voice.

"Thank you," said Sir Timothy. "Will you await her here? She is returning immediately. Break it to her as gently as you can. I shall rest and compose myself by a talk with Dr. Blundell."

He went slowly to the study, leaving John Crewys alone.

CHAPTER VI

"Is that you, Cousin John?" said Lady Mary. "Is Sir Timothy gone? I have not been away more than a few minutes, have I?"

She spoke quite brightly. Her cheeks were flushed, and her blue eyes were sparkling with excitement.

John looked at her, and found himself wishing that her soft, brown hair were not strained so tightly from her forehead, nor brushed so closely to her head; the fashion would have been trying to a younger face, and fatal to features less regularly delicate and correct. He also wished she were not dressed like a Quaker's wife. The stiff, grey poplin fitted like a glove the pretty curves of Lady Mary's slender figure, but it lacked distinction, and appropriateness, to John's fastidious eye. Then he reproached himself vehemently for allowing his thoughts to dwell on such trifles at such a moment.

"Will you forgive me for going away the very day you come?" said Lady
Mary.

How quickly, how surprisingly, she recovered her spirits! She had looked so weary and sad as she came down the stairs an hour ago. Now she was almost gay. A feverish and unnatural gaiety, no doubt; but those flushed cheeks, and glittering blue eyes—how they restored the youthful loveliness of the face he had once thought the most beautiful he ever saw!

"I am going to see the last of my boy. You'll understand, won't you? You were an only son too. And your mother would have gone to the ends of the earth to look upon your face once more, wouldn't she? Mothers are made like that."

"Some mothers," said John; and he turned away his head.

"Not yours? I'm sorry," said Lady Mary, simply.

"Oh, well—you know, she was a good deal—in the world," he said, repenting himself.

"I use to wish so much to live in the world too," said Lady Mary, dreamily; "but ever since I was fifteen I've lived in this out-of-the-way place."

"Don't be too sorry for that," said John; "you don't know what a revelation this out-of-the-way place may be to a tired worker like me, who lives always amid the unlovely sights and sounds of a city."

"Ah! but that's just it," she said quickly. "You see I'm not tired—yet; and I've done no work."

"That is why it's such a rest to look at you," said John, smiling. "Flowers have their place in creation as vegetables have theirs. But we only ask the flowers to bloom peacefully in sheltered gardens; we don't insist on popping them into the soup with the onions and carrots."

Lady Mary laughed as though she had not a care in the world.

"It is quite refreshing to find that a big-wig like you can talk just as much nonsense as a little-wig like me," she said; "but you don't know, for all that, what the silence and monotony of life here can be. The very voice of a stranger falls like music on one's ears. I was so glad to see you, and you were so kind and sympathetic about—my boy. And then, all in a moment, my joy was turned into mourning, wasn't it? And Peter is going to the war, and it's all like a dreadful dream; except that I know I shall wake up every morning only to realize more strongly that it's true."

John remembered that he was dallying with his mission, instead of fulfilling it.

"Sir Timothy cannot go to see his son off? That must be a grief to him," he said.

"No; he isn't coming. He has business, I believe," said Lady Mary, a little coldly. "There has been a dispute over some Crown lands, which march with ours. Officials are often very dilatory and difficult to deal with. Probably, however, you know more about it than I do. I am going alone. I have just been giving the necessary orders. I shall take a servant with me, as well as my maid, for I am such an inexperienced traveller—though it seems absurd, at my age—that I am quite frightened of getting into the wrong trains. I dread a journey by myself. Even such a little journey as that. But, of course, nothing would keep me at home."

"Only one thing," said John, in a low voice, "if I have judged your character rightly in so short a time."

"What is that?"

"Duty."

She looked at him with sweet, puzzled eyes, like a child.

"Are you pleading Sir Timothy's cause, Cousin John?" she said, with a little touch of offence in her tone that was only charming.

"I am pleading Sir Timothy's cause," said John, seriously.

"Love is stronger than duty, isn't it?" said Lady Mary.

"I hope not," said John, very simply.

"You mean my husband doesn't wish me to go?"

"Don't think me too presuming," he said pleadingly.

"I couldn't," said Lady Mary, naively. "You are older than I am, you know," she laughed, "and a Q.C. And you know you would be my trustee and my boy's guardian if anything ever happened to Sir Timothy. He told me so long ago. And he reminded me of it to-day most solemnly. I suppose he was afraid I shouldn't treat you with proper respect."

"He has honoured me very highly," said John. "In that case, it would be almost my—my duty to advise you in any difficulty that might arise, wouldn't it?"

"That means you want to advise me now?"

"Frankly, it does."

"And are you going to tell me that I ought to stay at home, and let my only boy leave England without bidding him God-speed?" said Lady Mary incredulously. "If so, I warn you that you will never convince me of that, argue as you may."

"No one is ever convinced by argument," said John. "But stern facts sometimes command even a woman's attention."

"When backed by such powers of persuasion as yours, perhaps."

She faced him with sparkling eyes. Lady Mary was timid and gentle by nature, but Peter's mother knew no fear. Yet she realized that if John Crewys were moved to put forth his full powers, he might be a difficult man to oppose. She met his glance, and observed that he perfectly understood the spirit which animated her, and that it was not opposition that shone from his bright hazel eyes, as he regarded her steadily through his pince-nez.

"I am going to deal with a hard fact, which your husband is afraid to tell you," said John, "because, in his tenderness for your womanly weakness, he underrates, as I venture to think, your womanly courage. Sir Timothy wants you to be with him here to-morrow because he has to—to fight an unequal battle—"

"With the Crown?"

"With Death."

"What do you mean?" said Lady Mary.

"He has been silently combating a mortal disease for many months past," said John, "and to-morrow morning the issue is to be decided. Every day, every hour of delay, increases the danger. The great surgeon, Dr. Herslett, will be here at eleven o'clock, and on the success of the operation he will perform, hangs the thread of your husband's life."

Lady Mary put up a little trembling hand entreatingly, and John's great heart throbbed with pity. He had chosen his words deliberately to startle her from her absorption in her son; but she looked so fragile, so white, so imploring, that his courage almost failed him. He came to her side, and took the little hand reassuringly in his strong, warm clasp.

"Be brave, my dear," he said, with faltering voice, "and put aside, if you can, the thought of your bitter, terrible disappointment. Only you can cheer, and inspire, and aid your husband to maintain the calmness of spirit which is of such vital importance to his chance of recovery. You can't leave him against his wish at such a moment; not if you are the—the angel I believe you to be," said John, with emotion.

There was a pause, and though he looked away from her, he knew that she was crying.

John released the little hand gently, and walked to the fireplace to give her time to recover herself. Perhaps his eye-glasses were dimmed; he polished them very carefully.

Lady Mary dashed away her tears, and spoke in a hard voice he scarcely recognized as hers.

"I might be all—you think me, John," she said, "if—"

"Ah! don't let there be an if," said John.

"But—"

"Or a but."

"It is that you don't understand the situation," she said; "you talk as though Sir Timothy and I were an ordinary husband and wife, entirely dependent on one another's love and sympathy. Don't you know he stands alone—above all the human follies and weaknesses of a mere woman? Can't you guess," said Lady Mary, passionately, "that it's my boy, my poor faulty, undutiful boy—oh, that I should call him so!—who needs me? that it's his voice that would be calling in my heart whilst I awaited Sir Timothy's pleasure to-morrow?"

"His pleasure?" said John, sternly.

"I am shocking you, and I didn't want to shock you," she cried, almost wildly. "But you don't suppose he needs me—me myself? He only wants to be sure I'm doing the right thing. He wants to give people no chance of saying that Lady Mary Crewys rushed off to see her spoilt boy whilst her husband hovered between life and death. A lay figure would do just as well; if it would only sit in an armchair and hold its handkerchief to its eyes; and if the neighbours, and his sisters, and the servants could be persuaded to think it was I."

"Hush, hush!" said John.

"Do let me speak out; pray let me speak out," she said, breathless and imploring, "and you can think what you like of me afterwards, when I am gone, if only you won't scold now. I am so sick of being scolded," said Lady Mary. "Am I to be a child for ever—I, that am so old, and have lost my boy?"

He thought there was something in her of the child that never grows up; the guilelessness, the charm, the ready tears and smiles, the quick changes of mood.

He rolled an elbow-chair forward, and put her into it tenderly.

"Say what you will," said John.

"This is comfortable," she said, leaning her head wearily on her hand; "to talk to a—a friend who understands, and who will not scold. But you can't understand unless I tell you everything; and Timothy himself, after all, would be the first to explain to you that it isn't my tears nor my kisses, nor my consolation he wants. You didn't think so really, did you?"

John hesitated, remembering Sir Timothy's words, but she did not wait for an answer.

"Yes," she said calmly, "he wishes me to be in my proper place. It would be a scandal if I did such a remarkable thing as to leave home on any pretext at such a moment. Only by being extraordinarily respectable and dignified can we live down the memory of his father's unconventional behaviour. I must remember my position. I must smell my salts, and put my feet up on the sofa, and be moderately overcome during the crisis, and moderately thankful to the Almighty when it's over, so that every one may hear how admirably dear Lady Mary behaved. And when I am reading the Times to him during his convalescence," she cried, wringing her hands, "Peter—Peter will be thousands of miles away, marching over the veldt to his death."

"You make very sure of Peter's death," said John, quietly.

"Oh yes," said Lady Mary, listlessly. "He's an only son. It's always the only sons who die. I've remarked that."

"You make very sure of Sir Timothy's recovery."

"Oh yes," Lady Mary said again. "He's a very strong man."

Something ominous in John's face and voice attracted her attention.

"Why do you look like that?"

"Because," said John, slowly—"you understand I'm treating you as a woman of courage—Dr. Blundell told me just now that—the odds are against him."

She uttered a little cry.

The doctor's voice at the end of the hall made them both start.

"Lady Mary," he said, "you will forgive my interruption. Sir Timothy desired me to join you. He feared this double blow might prove too much for your strength."

"I am quite strong," said Lady Mary.

"He wished me to deliver a message," said the doctor.

"Yes."

"On reflection, Sir Timothy believes that he may be partly influenced by a selfish desire for the consolation of your presence in wishing you to remain with him to-morrow. He was struck, I believe, with something Mr. Crewys said—on this point."

"God bless you, John!" said Lady Mary.

"Hush!" said John, shaking his head.

Dr. Blundell's voice sounded, John thought, as though he were putting force upon himself to speak calmly and steadily. His eyes were bent on the floor, and he never once looked at Lady Mary.

"Sir Timothy desires, consequently," he said, "that you will consider yourself free to follow your own wishes in the matter; being guided, as far as possible, by the advice of Mr. Crewys. He is afraid of further agitation, and therefore asks you to convey to him, as quickly as possible, your final decision. As his physician, may I beg you not to keep him waiting?"

He left them, and returned to the study.

Though it was only a short silence that followed his departure, John had time to learn by heart the aspect of the half-lighted, shadowy hall.

There are some pauses which are illustrated to the day of a man's death, by a vivid impression on his memory of the surroundings.

The heavy, painted beams crossing and re-crossing the lofty roof; the black staircase lighted with wax candles, that made a brilliancy which threw into deeper relief the darkness of every recess and corner; the full-length, Early Victorian portraits of men and women of his own race—inartistic daubs, that were yet horribly lifelike in the semi-illumination; the uncurtained mullioned windows,—all formed a background for the central figure in his thoughts; the slender womanly form in the armchair; the little brown head supported on the white hand; the delicate face, robbed of its youthful freshness, and yet so lovely still.

"John," said Lady Mary, in a voice from which all passion and strength had died away, "tell me what I ought to do."

"Remain with your husband."

"And let my boy go?" said Lady Mary, weeping. "I had thought, when he was leaving me, perhaps for ever, that—that his heart would be touched—that I should get a glimpse once more of the Peter he used to be. Oh, can't you understand? He—he's a little—hard and cold to me sometimes—God forgive me for saying so!—but you—you've been a young man too."

"Yes," John said, rather sadly, "I've been young too."

"It's only his age, you know," she said. "He couldn't always be as gentle and loving as when he was a child. A young man would think that so babyish. He wants, as he says, to be independent, and not tied to a woman's apron-string. But in his heart of hearts he loves me best in the whole world, and he wouldn't have been ashamed to let me see it at such a moment. And I should have had a precious memory of him for ever. You shake your head. Don't you understand me? I thought you seemed to understand," she said wistfully.

"Peter is a boy," said John, "and life is just opening for him. It is a hard saying to you, but his thoughts are full of the world he is entering. There is no room in them just now for the home he is leaving. That is human nature. If he be sick or sorry later on—as I know your loving fancy pictures him—his heart would turn even then, not to the mother he saw waving and weeping on the quay, amid all the confusion of departure, but to the mother of his childhood, of his happy days of long ago. It may be "—John hesitated, and spoke very tenderly—"it may be that his heart will be all the softer then, because he was denied the parting interview he never sought. The young are strangely wayward and impatient. They regret what might have been. They do not, like the old, dwell fondly upon what the gods actually granted them. It is you who will suffer from this sacrifice, not Peter; that will be some consolation to you, I suppose, even if it be also a disappointment."

"Ah, how you understand!" said Peter's mother, sadly.

"Perhaps because, as you said just now, I have been a young man too," he said, forcing a smile. "Oh, forgive me, but let me save you; for I believe that if you deserted your husband to-day, you would sorrow for it to the end of your life."

"And Peter—" she murmured.

He came to her side, and straightened himself, and spoke hopefully.

"Give me your last words and your last gifts—and a letter—for Peter, and send me in your stead to-night. I will deliver them faithfully. I will tell him—for he should be told—of the sore straits in which you find yourself. Set him this noble example of duty, and believe me, it will touch his heart more nearly than even that sacred parting which you desire."

Lady Mary held out her hand to him.

"Tell Sir Timothy that I will stay," she whispered.

John bent down and kissed the little hand in silence, and with profound respect.

Then he went to the study without looking back.

When he was gone, Lady Mary laid her face upon the badly painted miniature of Peter, and cried as one who had lost all hope in life.

CHAPTER VII

"Her didn't make much account on him while him were alive; but now 'ce be dead, 'tis butivul tu zee how her du take on," said Happy Jack.

There was a soft mist of heat; the long-delayed spring coming suddenly, after storms of cold rain and gales of wind had swept the Youle valley. Two days' powerful sunshine had excited the buds to breaking, and drawn up the tender blades of young grass from the soaked earth.

The flowering laurels hung over the shady banks, whereon large families of primroses spent their brief and lovely existence undisturbed. The hawthorn put forth delicate green leaves, and the white buds of the cherry-trees in the orchard were swelling on their leafless boughs.

In such summer warmth, and with the concert of building birds above and around, it was strange to see the dead and wintry aspect of the forest trees; still bare and brown, though thickening with the red promise of foliage against the April sky.

John Crewys, climbing the lane next the waterfall, had been hailed by the roadside by the toothless, smiling old rustic.

"I be downright glad to zee 'ee come back, zur; ay, that 'a be. What vur du 'ee go gadding London ways, zays I, when there be zuch a turble lot to zee arter? and the ladyship oop Barracombe ways, her bain't vit var tu du 't, as arl on us du know. Tis butivul tu zee how her takes on," 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 the middle-aged gentleman. "I've knowed her zince her wur a little maid. I used tu give her lolly-pops. Yu speak up, Miss Zairy, and tell 'un if I 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 her ladyship avore yu. I mind her when her was a little maid, and pretty ways 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," said Sarah, apologetically. "He's so old, you see. He doesn't remember how old he is, and nobody can tell him. But he knows he was born in the reign of George the Third, because his mother told him so; and he remembers his father coming in with news of the Battle of Waterloo, So I 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 'a bin in the churchyard along o' the idlers, that 'a shude." He chuckled and winked. "I du be a turble vunny man," quavered the thin falsetto voice. "They be niver a dune a laughin' along o' my jokes. An' I du remember 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' ould squire. An old devil. That's what 'ee was."

"He only means Sir Timothy's father had a bad temper," explained
Sarah. "It's quite true."

"Ah, was it timper?" said Jack, sarcastically. "I cude tell 'ee zum tales 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,' 'a zays. 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 acrust thiccy vield,' 'a zays. And us knowed 'un wude du 't tu. And 'un barred the gate, and there t'was."

He laughed till the tears ran down his face, brown as gingerbread, and wrinkled as a monkey's.

"Mr. Crewys is in a hurry, Jack," said Sarah. "He's only just arrived from 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 maiden like 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 arl this turble yeat. When the zun du search, the rain du voller."

"I dare say you want a glass of beer yourself," said John, producing a coin from his pocket.

"No, zur, I doan't," said the road-mender, unexpectedly. "Beer doan't agree wi' my inzide, an' it gits into my yead, and makes me proper jolly, zo the young volk make game on me. But I cude du wi' a drop o' zider zur; and drink your health and the young lady's, zur, zo 'a cude."

He winked and nodded as he pocketed the coin; and John, half laughing and half vexed, pursued his road with Sarah.

"It seems to me that the old gentleman has become a trifle free and easy 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 were
Sir Timothy's own cousin."

"A very distant cousin," said John.

"But every one in the valley knows," said Sarah, "that Sir Timothy's father married his own cook, who was Happy Jack's first cousin. When I was 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 second marriage of Sir Timothy the elder.

"So she was a cook!" he said. "Well, what harm?" and he laughed in spite of himself. "I wonder why there is something so essentially unromantic 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 Jack won't leave Youlestone, though he says they tempted him with untold gold. And he wouldn't touch his hat to Sir Timothy, because he was his cousin. 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 Sir
Timothy never went outside his own gates if he could help it," said
Sarah, 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, with Sir Timothy's sisters?" asked Sarah, with simplicity. "They were in the schoolroom when their papa married her, or I am sure they would never have allowed it. Their own mother was a most select person; and little thought when she gave the orders for dinner, and all that, who the old gentleman's next wife would be," said Sarah, giggling. "They always talk of her as the Honourable Rachel, since Lady Crewys, you know, might just as well mean the cook. I suppose the old squire got 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 character when he grows old. He is so disagreeable at times."

"I thought you were so fond of Peter?" said John, looking amusedly down on the little chatterbox beside him.

"Not exactly fond of him. It's just that I'm used to him," said Sarah, colouring all over her clear, fresh face, even to the little tendrils of red hair on her white neck.

She wore a blue cotton frock, and a brown mushroom hat, with a wreath of wild roses which had somewhat too obviously been sewn on in a hurry and crookedly; and she looked far more like a village schoolgirl than a young lady who was shortly to make her début 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—her expression softer," said John to himself—"if divine colouring were all—she would be beautiful."

But her wide, smiling mouth, short-tipped nose, and cleft chin, conveyed rather the impression of childish audacity than of feminine charm. The glance of those bright, inquisitive eyes was like a wild robin's, half innocent, half bold. Though her round throat were white as milk, and though no careless exposure to sun and wind had yet succeeded in dimming the exquisite fairness of her skin, yet the defects and omissions incidental to extreme youth, country breeding, and lack of discipline, rendered Miss Sarah not wholly pleasing in John's fastidious eyes. Her carriage was slovenly, her ungloved hands were red, her hair touzled, and her deep-toned voice over-loud and confident. Yet her frankness and her trustfulness could not fail to evoke sympathy.

"It is—Lady Mary that I am fond of," said the girl, with a yet more vivid 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. She winked a tear from her long eyelashes. "But I know it's only your good nature. She thinks of nothing and nobody but Peter. And—and, after all, when I get better manners, and all that, I shall be more of a companion 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. She cares most for the boys, which is very natural, no doubt, as I was only an afterthought, and nobody wanted me. And Aunt Elizabeth has always 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 you get to London," said John, smiling. He was struck by the half-sly, half-acquiescent look that Sarah stole at him from beneath those long eyelashes. Perhaps her outspokenness was not so involuntary as he had imagined.

"If I had known you were coming to-day, I would have gone up to say good-bye to Lady Mary last night," said Sarah, mournfully. "She won't want me now you are here."

"I have a thousand and one things to look after. I sha'n't be in your way," 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 and sadder-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, and large-pupilled, and heavily lashed, that they looked almost black. She ground her strong white teeth together.

"If I were Lady Mary," she said, "I would have slammed the old front door behind me the very day after Sir Timothy was buried—and gone away; I would. There she is, like a prisoner, with the old ladies counting every tear she sheds, and adding them up to see if it is enough; and measuring every inch of crape on her gowns; and finding fault with all she does, just as they used when Sir Timothy was alive to back them up. And she is afraid to do anything he didn't like; and she never listens to the doctor, the only person in the world who's ever 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-shaven face, and did not escape little Sarah's observation, for all her downcast lashes.

"Somebody must go and see her," said Sarah; "and you were away. And the canon is just nobody, always bothering her for subscriptions; though he is very fond of her, like everybody else," she added, with compunction. "Dear me, Mr. Crewys, how fast you are walking!"

John had unconsciously quickened his pace so much that she had some ado 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 say I shall fine down as I get older," said Sarah, apologetically. "It would be dreadful if I grew up like mamma. But I am more like my father, thank goodness, and he is simply a mass of hard muscle. I dare 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 rhododendron had burst into scarlet bloom. The steep drive was warmly walled and sheltered on the side next the hill by horse-chestnuts, witch-elms, tall, flowering shrubs and evergreens, and a variety of tree-azaleas and rhododendrons which promised a blaze of beauty later in the season.

But the other side of the drive lay in full view of the open landscape; rolling grass slopes stretching down to the orchards and the valley. Violets, white and blue, scented the air, and the primroses clustered at the roots of the forest trees.

The gnarled and twisted stems of giant creepers testified to the age of Barracombe House. Before the entrance was a level space, which made a little spring garden, more formal and less varied in its arrangement than the terrace gardens on the south front; but no less gay and bright, with beds of hyacinths, red and white and purple, and daffodils springing amidst their bodyguards of pale, pointed spears.

A wild cherry-tree at the corner of the house had showered snowy petals before the latticed window of the study; the window whence Sir Timothy had taken his last look at the western sky, and from which his watchful gaze had once commanded the approach to his house, and observed almost every human being who ventured up the drive.

On the ridge of the hill above, and in clumps upon the fertile slopes of the side of the little valley, the young larches rose, newly clothed in that light and brilliant foliage which darkens almost before spring gives place to summer.

They found Lady Mary in the drawing-room; the sunshine streamed towards her through the golden rain of a planta-genista, which stood on a table in the western corner of the bow window. She was looking out over the south terrace, and the valley and the river, just as Sarah had said.

He was shocked at her pallor, which was accentuated by her black dress; her sapphire blue eyes looked unnaturally large and clear; the little white hands clasped in her lap were too slender; a few silver threads glistened in the soft, brown hair. Above all, the hopeless expression of the sad and gentle face went to John's heart.

Was the doctor the only man in the world who had the courage to fight her battles for this fading, grieving woman who had been the lovely Mary Setoun; whom John remembered so careless, so laughing, so innocently 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 glad tones. "But, oh—you must have walked all the way from Brawnton! What will James Coachman say?"

"I wanted a walk," said John, "and I knew you would send to meet me if I let you know. My luggage is at the station. James Coachman, as you call 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 obvious pleasure in John's arrival, and half-oblivion of her own familiar little presence.

When Peter had first gone to school, his mother in her loneliness had almost made a confidante of little Sarah, the odd, intelligent child who followed her about so faithfully, and listened so eagerly to those dreamy, half-uttered confidences. She knew that Lady Mary wept because her boy had left her; but she understood also that when Peter came home for the holidays he brought little joy to his mother. A self-possessed stripling now walked about the old house, and laid down the law to his mamma—instead of that chubby creature in petticoats who had once been Peter.

Lady Mary had dwelt on the far-off days of Peter's babyhood very tenderly when she was alone with little Sarah, who sat and nursed her doll, and liked very much to listen; she often felt awed, as though some one had died; but she did not connect the story much with the Peter of every day, who went fishing and said girls were rather a nuisance.

Sarah, too, had had her troubles. She was periodically banished to distant schools by a mother who disliked romping and hoydenish little girls, as much as she doted on fat and wheezing lap-dogs. But as her father, on the other hand, resented her banishment from home almost as sincerely as Sarah herself, she was also periodically sent for to take up her residence once more beneath the parental roof. Thus her life was full of change and uncertainty; but, through it all, her devotion to Lady Mary never wavered.

She looked at her now with a melancholy air which sat oddly upon her bright, comical face, and which was intended to draw attention to the pathetic 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 kindly towards her.

"It may be for years," said Sarah, rather offended. "My aunt
Elizabeth is as good as adopting me. Mamma said I was very lucky, and
I believe she is glad to be rid of me. But papa says he shall come and
see me in London. Aunt Elizabeth is going to take me to Paris and to
Scotland, and abroad every winter."

"Oh, Sarah, how you will be changed when you come back!" said Lady
Mary; and she laughed a little, with a hand on Sarah's shoulder; but
Sarah knew that Lady Mary was not thinking very much about her, all
the same.

"There is no fresh news, John?" she asked.

"Nothing since my last telegram," he answered. "But I have arranged with the Exchange Telegraph Company to wire me anything of importance during my stay here."

"You are always so good," she said.

Then he took pity on Sarah's impatience, and left the little worshipper to the interview with her idol which she so earnestly desired.

"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 and goloshes 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 weather a close carriage was not inviting to country-bred people.

CHAPTER VIII

John took his hat and stepped out once more upon the drive, and there met Dr. Blundell, who had left his dog-cart at the stables, and was walking up to the house.

He did not pause to analyze the sentiment of slight annoyance which clouded his usual good humour; but Dr. Blundell divined it, with the quickness of an ultra-sensitive nature. He showed no signs that he had done so.

"It was you I came to see," he said, shaking hands with John. "I heard—you know how quickly news spreads here—that you had arrived. I hoped you might spare me a few moments for a little conversation."

"Certainly," said John. "Will you come in, or shall we take a turn?"

"You will be glad of a breath of fresh air after your journey," said the doctor, and he led the way across the south terrace, to a sheltered corner of the level plateau upon which the house was built, which was known as the fountain garden.

It was rather a deserted garden, thickly surrounded and overgrown by shrubs. Through the immense spreading Portuguese laurels which sheltered it from the east, little or no sunshine found its way to the grey, moss-grown basin and the stone figures supporting it; over which a thin stream of water continually flowed with a melancholy rhythm, in perpetual twilight.

A giant ivy grew rankly and thickly about the stone buttresses of this eastern corner of the house, and around a great mullioned window which overlooked the fountain garden, and which was the window of Lady Mary's bedroom.

"These shrubberies want thinning," said John, looking round him rather disgustedly. "This place is reeking with damp. I should like to cut down some of these poisonous laurels, and let in the air and the sunshine, and open out the view of the Brawnton hills."

"And why don't you?" said the doctor, with such energy in his tone that John stopped short in his pacing of the gravel walk, and looked at him.

The two men were almost as unlike in appearance as in character.

The doctor was nervous, irritable, and intense in manner; with deep-set, piercing eyes that glowed like hot coal when he was moved or excited. A tall, gaunt man, lined and wrinkled beyond his years; careless of appearance, so far as his shabby clothes were concerned, yet careful of detail, as was proven by spotless linen and well-preserved, delicate hands.

He was indifferent utterly to the opinion of others, to his own worldly advancement, or to any outer consideration, when in pursuit of the profession he loved; and he knew no other interest in life, save one. He had the face of a fanatic or an enthusiast; but also of a man whose understanding had been so cultivated as to temper enthusiasm with judgment.

He had missed success, and was neither resigned to his disappointment, nor embittered by it.

The gaze of those dark eyes was seldom introspective; rather, as it seemed, did they look out eagerly, sadly, pitifully at the pain and sorrow of the world; a pain he toiled manfully to lessen, so far as his own infinitesimal corner of the universe was concerned.

John Crewys, on the other hand, was, to the most casual observer, a successful man; a man whose personality would never be overlooked.

There was a more telling force in his composure than in the doctor's nervous energy. His clear eyes, his bright, yet steady glance, inspired confidence.

The doctor might have been taken for a poet, but John looked like a philosopher.

He was also, as obviously, in appearance, a man of the world, and a Londoner, as the doctor was evidently a countryman, and a hermit. His advantages over the doctor included his voice, which was as deep and musical as the tones of his companion were harsh.

The manner, no less than the matter of John's speech, had early brought him distinction.

Nature, rather than cultivation, had bestowed on him the faculty of conveying the impression he wished to convey, in tones that charm; and held his auditors, and penetrated ears dulled and fatigued by monotony and indistinctness.

The more impassioned his pleading, the more utterly he held his own emotion in check; the more biting his subtly chosen words, the more courteous his manner; now deadly earnest, now humorously scornful, now graciously argumentative, but always skilfully and designedly convincing.

The doctor, save in the presence of a patient, had no such control over himself as John Crewys carried from the law-courts, into his life of every day.

"Why don't you," he said, in fiery tones, "let in air and life, and a view of the outside world, and as much sunshine as possible into this musty old house? You have the power, if you had only the will."

"You speak figuratively, I notice," said John. "I should be much obliged if you would tell me exactly what you mean."

He would have answered in warmer and more kindly tones had Sarah's words not rung upon his ear.

Was the doctor going to fight Lady Mary's battles now, and with him, of all people in the world? As though there were any one in the world to whom her interests could be dearer than—

John stopped short in his thoughts, and looked attentively at the doctor. His heart smote him. How pallid was that tired face; and the hollow eyes, how sad and tired too! The doctor had been up all night, in a wretched isolated cottage, watching a man die—but John did not know that.

He perceived that this was no meddler, but a man speaking of something very near his heart; no presuming and interfering outsider who deserved a snub, but a man suffering from some deep and hidden cause.

The doctor's secret was known to John long before he had finished what he had to say; but he listened attentively, and gave no sign that this was so.

"She will die," said Blundell, "if this goes on;" and he neither mentioned any name, nor did John Crewys require him to do so.

The doctor's words came hurrying out incoherently from the depths of his anxiety and earnestness.

"She will die if this goes on. There were few hopes and little enough pleasure in her life before; but what is left to her now? De mortuis nil nisi bonum. But just picture to yourself for a moment, man, what her life has been."

He stopped and drew breath, and strove to speak calmly and dispassionately.

"I was born in the valley of the Youle," he said. "My people live in a cottage—they call it a house, but it's just a farm—on the river,—Cullacott. I was a raw medical student when she came here as a child. Her father was killed in the Afghan War. He had quarrelled with his uncle, they said, who afterwards succeeded to the earldom; so she was left to the guardianship of Sir Timothy, a distant cousin. Every one was sorry for her, because Sir Timothy was her guardian, and because she was a little young thing to be left to the tender mercies of the two old ladies, who were old even then. If you will excuse my speaking frankly about the family"—John nodded—"they bullied their brother always; what with their superiority of birth, and his being so much younger, and so on. Their bringing-up made him what he was, I am sure. He went nowhere; he always fancied people were laughing at him. His feeling about his—his mother's lowly origin seemed to pervade his whole life. He exaggerated the importance of birth till it became almost a mania. If you hadn't known the man, you couldn't have believed a human being—one of the million crawling units on the earth—could be so absurdly inflated with self-importance. It was pitiful. He went nowhere, and saw no one. I believe he thought that Providence had sent a wife of high rank to his very door to enable him partially to wipe out his reproach. She looked like a child when she came, but she shot up very suddenly into womanhood. If you ask me if she was unhappy, I declare I don't think so. She had never realized, I should think, what it was to be snubbed or found fault with in her life. She was a motherless child, and had lived with her old grandfather and her young father, and had been very much spoilt. And they were both snatched away from her, as it were, in a breath; and she alone in the world, with an uncle who was only glad to get rid of her to her stranger guardian. Well,—she was too young and too bright and too gay to be much downcast for all the old women could do. She laughed at their scolding, and when they tried severity she appealed to Sir Timothy. The old doctor who was my predecessor here told me at the time that he thought she had bewitched Sir Timothy; but afterwards he said that he believed it was only that Sir Timothy had made up his mind even then to quarter the Setoun arms with his own. Anyway, he went against his sisters for the first and only time in his life, and they learnt that Lady Mary was not to be interfered with. Whether it was gratitude or just the childish satisfaction of triumphing over her two enemies, I can't tell, but she married him in less than two years after she came to live at Barracombe. The old ladies didn't know whether to be angry or pleased. They wanted him to marry, and they wanted his wife to be well-born, no doubt; but to have a mere child set over them! Well, the marriage took place in London."

"I was present," said John.

"The people here said things about it that may have got round to Sir Timothy; but I don't know. He never came down to the village, except to church, where he sat away from everybody, in the gallery curtained off. Anyway, he wouldn't have the wedding down here. He invited all her relatives, and none of them had a word to say. It wasn't as if she were an heiress. I believe she had next to nothing. She was just like a child, laughing, and pleased at getting married, and with all her finery, perhaps,—or at getting rid of her lessons with the old women may be,—and the thought of babies of her own. Who knows what a girl thinks of?" said the doctor, harshly. "I didn't see her again for a long time after. But then I came down; the Brawnton doctor was getting old, and it was a question whether I should succeed him or go on in London, where I was doing well enough. And—and I came here," said the doctor, abruptly.

John nodded again. He filled in the gaps of the doctor's narrative for himself, and understood.

"She had changed very much. All the gaiety and laughter gone. But she was wrapt up in the child as I never saw any woman wrapt up in a brat before or since; and I've known some that were pretty ridiculous in that way," said the doctor, and his voice shook more than ever. "It was—touching, for she was but a child herself; and Peter, between you and me, was an unpromising doll for a child to play with. He was ugly and ill-tempered, and he wouldn't be caressed, or dressed up, or made much of, from the first minute he had a will of his own. As he grew bigger he was for ever having rows with his father, and his mother was for ever interceding for him. He was idle at school; but he was a manly boy enough over games and sport, and a capital shot. Anyway, she managed to be proud of him, God knows how. I shouldn't wonder if this war was the making of him, though, poor chap, if he's spared to see the end of it all."

"I have no doubt the discipline will do him a great deal of good," said John, dryly.

It cannot be said that his brief interview at Southampton had impressed John with a favourable opinion of the sulky and irresponsive youth, who had there listened to his mother's messages with lowering brow and downcast eye. Peter had betrayed no sign of emotion, and almost none of gratitude for John's hurried and uncomfortable journey to convey that message.

"A few hard knocks will do you no harm, my young friend; and I almost wish you may get them," John had said to himself on his homeward journey; dreading, yet expecting, the news that awaited him at Peter's home, and for which he had done his best to prepare the boy.

"Too much consideration hitherto has ruined him," said the doctor, shortly. "But it's not of Peter I'm thinking, one way or the other. From the time he went first to school, she's had to depend entirely on her own resources—and what are they?"

He paused, as though to gather strength and energy for his indictment.

"From the time she was brought here—except for that one outing and a change to Torquay, I believe, after Peter's birth—she has scarce set foot outside Barracombe. Sir Timothy would not, so he was resolved she should not. His sisters, who have as much cultivation as that stone figure, disapproved of novel-reading—or of any other reading, I should fancy—and he followed suit. Books are almost unknown in this house. The library bookcases were locked. Sir Timothy opened them once in a while, and his sisters dusted the books with their own hands; it was against tradition to handle such valuable bindings. He hated music, and the piano was not to be played in his presence. Have you ever tried it? I'm told you're musical. It belonged to Lady Belstone's mother, the Honourable Rachel. That is her harp which stands in the corner of the hall. Her daughter once tinkled a little, I believe; but the prejudices of the ruling monarch were religiously obeyed. Music was taboo at Barracombe. Dancing was against their principles, and theatres they regard with horror, and have never been inside one in their lives. Nothing took Sir Timothy to London but business; and if it were possible to have the business brought to Barracombe, his solicitor, Mr. Crawley, visited him here."

The doctor spoke in lower tones, as he recurred to his first theme.

"I don't think she found out for years, or realized what a prisoner she was. They caught and pinned her down so young. There are no very near neighbours—I mean, not the sort of people they would recognize as neighbours—except the Hewels. Youlestone is such an out-of-the-way place, and Sir Timothy was never on intimate terms with any one. Mrs. Hewel is a fool—there was only little Sarah whom Lady Mary made a pet of—but she had no friends. Sir Timothy and his sisters made visiting such a stiff and formal business, that it was no wonder she hated paying calls; the more especially as it could lead to nothing. He would not entertain; he grudged the expense. I was present at a scene he once made because a large party drove over from a distant house and stayed to tea. He said he could not entertain the county. She dared ask no one to her house—she, who was so formed and fitted by nature to charm and attract, and enjoy social intercourse." His voice faltered. "They stole her youth," he said.

"What do you want me to do?" said John, though he was vaguely conscious that he understood for what the doctor was pleading.

He sat down by the fountain; and the doctor, resting a mended boot on the end of the bench, leant on his bony knee, and looked down wistfully at John's thoughtful face, broad brow, and bright, intent eyes.

"You are a very clever man, Mr. Crewys," he said humbly. "A man of the world, successful, accomplished, and, I believe, honest"—he spoke with a simplicity that disarmed offence—"or I should not have ventured as I have ventured. Somehow you inspire me with confidence. I believe you can save her. I believe you could find a way to bring back her peace of mind; the interest in life—the gaiety of heart—that is natural to her. If I were in your place, not the two old women—not Sir Timothy's ghost—not that poor conceited slip of a lad who may be shot to-morrow—would stand in my way. I would bring back the colour to her cheek, and the light to her eye, and the music to her voice—"

"Whilst her boy is in danger?" John asked, almost scornfully. He thought he knew Lady Mary better than the doctor did, after all.

"I tell you nothing would stop me," said Blundell, vehemently. "Before I would let her fret herself to death—afraid to break the spells that have been woven round her, bound as she is, hand and foot, with the prejudices of the dead—I would—I would—take her to South Africa myself," he said brilliantly. "The voyage would bring her back to life."

John got up. "That is an idea," he said. He paused and looked at the doctor. "You have known her longer than I. Have you said nothing to her of all this?"

The doctor smiled grimly. "Mr. Crewys," he said, "some time since I spoke my mind—a thing I am over-apt to do—of Peter, and to him. The lad has forgiven me; he is a man, you see, with all his faults. But Lady Mary, though she has all the virtues of a woman, is also a mother. A woman often forgives; a mother, never. Don't forget."

"I will not," said John.

"And you'll do it—"

"Use the unlimited authority that has been placed in my hands, by improving this tumble-down, overgrown place?" said John, slowly. "Let in light, air, and sunshine to Barracombe, and do my best to brighten Lady Mary's life, without reference to any one's prejudices, past or present?"

"You've got the idea," said the doctor, joyfully. "Will you carry it out?"

"Yes," said John.

CHAPTER IX

The new moon brightened above the rim of the opposite hill, and touched the river below with silver reflections. On the grass banks sloping away beneath the terrace gardens, sheets of bluebells shone almost whitely on the grass. The silent house rose against the dark woods, whitened also here and there by the blossom of wild cherry-trees.

Lady Mary stepped from the open French windows of the drawing-room into the still, scented air of the April night. She stood leaning against the stone balcony, and gazing at the wonderful panorama of the valley and overlapping hills; where the little river threaded its untroubled course between daisied meadows and old orchards and red crumbling banks.

A broad-shouldered figure appeared in the window, and a man's step crunched 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 will drive me mad—Isabella and Georgina."

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

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

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

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

"Dear Timothy not dead three months, and she sitting out there in the night 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 trust a perfect stranger—even though John is a cousin—with the care of his wife 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? I should hope he is as good a lawyer as young John any day," said Lady Belstone, tossing her head. "But I have often noticed that people will trust any chance stranger with the property they leave behind, rather than those they know best."

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

"I am blaming nobody, Georgina; but I will say that if poor Timothy thought proper to leave everything else in the hands of young John, he might have considered that you and I had a better right to the Dower House 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 forfeited the position of daughter of the house when you married. But I have always occupied my old place, and my old room."

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

"For my part, I can sleep in one room as well as another, provided it be comfortable and appropriate," said Lady Belstone, with dignity. "There are very pleasant rooms in the Dower House, and our great-aunts managed to live there in comfort, and yet keep an eye on their nephew here, as I have always been told. I don't know why we should object to doing 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 them out 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," said Lady Belstone, plaintively. "It is not my fault that I am a widow. I did not murder the admiral."

"I don't say you did, Isabella," said Georgina, grimly; "but he only survived 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 am not to speak to you?"

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

"I have wondered now and then," said John, deliberately, "why you put up 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 there is 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 all hope," he said, rather huskily, "I could escort you myself, in a few weeks' time, to the Cape. Or—or arrange for your going earlier if you desired, and if I could not get away. Probably you would get no further than Cape Town; but it might be easier for you waiting there—than here."

"I shall thank you, and bless you always, for thinking of it," she interrupted, softly; "but there is something—that I never told anybody."

He waited.

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

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, I should not have liked my mother, or any woman I loved, to come out to the seat of war. He showed only a proper care for you in forbidding it. Perhaps I am less courageous than he, in thinking more of the present benefit you would derive from the voyage and the change of scene, than of the perils and discomforts which might await you, for aught we can foretell now, at the end of it. Peter certainly showed judgment 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 I never thought of that. I remembered his old dislike of being followed about, 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," said
John, heedful always of the doctor's warning.

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

She spoke as hopefully as though she had not read it already a hundred times 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 him too well;" and he wondered whether his explanation of Peter's action were charitable, or merely unscrupulous.

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

She said to herself that parents were often unreasonable, expecting impossibilities, in their wild desire for perfection in their offspring. An outsider, being unprejudiced by anxiety, could judge more fairly. John found that the telegram, which had almost broken her heart, was reasonable and justified; nay, even that it displayed a dutiful regard for her safety and comfort, of which no one but a stranger could possibly have suspected Peter. She was grateful to John. It was a relief and joy to feel that it was she who was to blame, 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 human nature, it was the doctor who had put the key into his hands, which presently unlocked Lady Mary's confidence.

"You mustn't think, John, that I don't understand what it will be like later, 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's apron-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 they all think so. It is of little use to try and hide them from you, who will see them for yourself directly my darling comes back. I pray God it may be soon. Of course he is spoilt; but I am to blame, because I made him my idol."

"An only son is always more or less spoilt," said John. He remembered his own boyhood, and smiled sardonically in the darkness. "He will grow 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 to learn to do without him, I know," she said. "I must learn while he is away to—to depend on myself. It is not likely that—that a woman of 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 touch with 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 upwards to take a farewell of the older. But there must be a looking down or a looking up. No face-to-face talk is possible except upon the same level. No real and true comradeship. The very word implies a marching together, under the same circumstances, to a common goal; and how can we, who have to be the commanding officers of the young, be their true companions?" he said, lightly and cheerfully.

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

"I was going to propose," said John, "that, if agreeable to you, I should spend my summer and autumn holiday here, instead of going, as usual, 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 with my trust I am bound to set about it," said John. "I propose to spend the next few days in examining the reports of the surveys that have already been made, and in judging of their accuracy for myself. When I return here later, I could have the work begun, and then for some time I 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 and beautiful."

"There are hundreds of pounds' worth of timber perishing for want of attention. I am responsible for it all until Peter comes of age," said John, "as I am for the rest of his inheritance. It is part of my trust to 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 been a Hertfordshire squire, on a small scale, had not circumstances necessitated 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 instantly the abuse that had been showered on his mother, by her sisters-in-law, when John was reported to have sacrificed his patrimony to pay her debts.

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

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

"I suppose it wants repairing?" said Lady Mary. "Hadn't that better be put 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 are actually rotten. Then there are the drains; they are on a system that should not be tolerated in these days. Nothing has been done for over sixty 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 improvement of the house and estate during Peter's minority; but over which he is to 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 with the rest of his capital, which is all strictly tied up. So, as old Crawley says, it will relieve Peter's income in the future, if we spend what is necessary now, according to our powers, in putting his house 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 the village carpenter and mason."

"I did not know," said Lady Mary. "He always told me we were very badly off—for our position. I know nothing of business. I did not attend 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 cousins must have talked it over?"

"Isabella and Georgina never talk business before me. You forget I am still a child in their eyes," she said, smiling. "I gathered that they were disappointed poor Timothy had left them nothing, and that they thought 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 thousand pounds left to them by their father in settlement. This was to return to the estate if they died unmarried or childless. You have two thousand a year and the Dower House for your life; but you forfeit both if you re-marry."

"Of course," said Lady Mary, indifferently. "I suppose that is the usual 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 said presently. "It doesn't matter now, but Timothy never told me. I thought I hadn't a farthing in the world. He never mentioned money matters to me at all." Then she laughed faintly. "I could have lived all by myself in a cottage in Scotland, without being beholden to anybody—on five hundred pounds a year, couldn't I?"

"There is no reason you should not have a cottage in Scotland now, if you 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 had been, and wondered less at the almost childish simplicity which characterized her, and which in no way marred her natural graciousness and dignity. Lady Mary did not observe his silence, because her own thoughts were busy with a scene which memory had painted for her, and far away from the moonlit valley of the Youle. She saw a tall, narrow, turreted building against a ruddy sunset sky; a bare ridge of hills crowned sparsely with ragged Scotch firs; a sea of heather which had seemed boundless to a childish imagination.

"I could not go back to Scotland now," she said, with that little wistful-sounding, patient sob which moved John to such pity that he could scarce contain himself; "but some day, when I am free—when nobody wants me."

"London is the only place worth living in just now, whilst we are in such terrible anxiety," he said boldly. "At least there are the papers and telegrams all day long, and none of this dreary, long waiting between the posts; and there are other things—to distract one's attention, 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 too much. Life seems to call so loudly to me now and then; as though I were tired of sitting alone, and looking up the valley and down the valley. I know it all by heart. It would be fresh life; the stir, the movement; other people, fresh ideas, beautiful new things to see. But, indeed, you must not tempt me." There was an accent of yearning in her tone, a hint of eager anticipation, as of a good time coming; a dream postponed, which she would nevertheless be willing one day to enjoy. "I mustn't go anywhere; I couldn't—until my boy comes home, if he ever comes home," she added, under her breath.

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

"Ah, yes!" said Lady Mary, and again that wistful note of longing sounded. "I have thought sometimes I would not like to die before I have seen my birthplace once more. And there is—Italy," she said, as though the one word conveyed every vision of earthly beauty which mortal could desire to behold—as, indeed, it does. And again she added, "But I don't know what my sisters-in-law would say. It would be against 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 thrilled John'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 her mother's, Sir William Belstone, came to spend a few days here. I believe the poor man invited himself, because he happened to be staying in the neighbourhood. He was a gallant old sailor, and very polite to both his cousins; and one day Isabella interpreted his compliments into a proposal of marriage. Georgina has given me to understand that no one was ever more astounded and terrified than the admiral when he found himself engaged to Isabella. But apparently he was a chivalrous old gentleman, and would not disappoint her. It is really rather a sad little story, because he died of heart disease very soon after the marriage. Old Mrs. Ash, the housekeeper, always declares her mistress came home even more old-maidish in her ways than she went away, and that she quarrelled with the poor admiral from morning till night. Perhaps that is why she has never lightened her garb of woe. And she makes my life a burden to me because I won't wear a cap. Ah! how heartless it all sounds, and yet how ridiculous! Dear Cousin John, haven't I bored you? Let us go in."

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

The late squire had apparently been as well aware of the neglected state 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 take any steps towards amending the condition of either—or to part with his ever-increasing balance at his bankers'.

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

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

"Over sixty thousand pounds uninvested, and lying idle at the bank," he said, lifting his hands and eyes, "and one long, miserable grumbling over the expense of keeping up Barracombe. One good tenant after another lost because the landlord would keep nothing in repair; gardener after gardener leaving for want of a shilling increase in weekly wages. In case Sir Peter should turn out to resemble his father, we had best not let the grass grow under our feet, Mr. Crewys," said the shrewd gentleman, chuckling, "but take full advantage of the powers entrusted to you for the next two years and a 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 man will put unlimited power into the hands of a comparative stranger, and leave his own son tied hand and foot? Not a penny of all this capital will 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 feel positively guilty, and ashamed to have had even the nominal management of them. But what could a man do under the circumstances? He paid for my advice, and then acted directly contrary to it, and thought he had done a clever thing, and outwitted his own lawyer. But now we shall get 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 haggled over the price, and couldn't make up our minds to give what the farmer wants. He'll have to sell in the end, you know; but I suppose he could hold 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 doubt a bit above its proper value; but it's accommodation land, and it would be disappointing if it slipped through our fingers. I propose to offer him pretty nearly what he asks."

"He'll take it," said Mr. Crawley, with satisfaction. "I could never make Sir Timothy see that it wouldn't pay the fellow to turn out unless he got something over and above the value of his mortgages."

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

"He's an inveterate poacher. A good thing to give him no further excuse 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 the soil 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, the drains, the stables, and the home farm. Here are my estimates."

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

"I telled 'im tu du things by the littles," said the woodman, who was kept at work marking trees and saplings as he had never worked before; though John was generous of help, and liberal of pay. "But lard, he bain't one tu covet nobody's gude advice. I was vair terrified tu zee arl he knowed about the drees. The squoire 'ee wur like a babe unbarn beside '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 John Crewys, the confusion of workmen, the novel interest of renovating and restoring the old house, helped to brace and fortify Lady Mary during the months which followed; months, nevertheless, of suspense and anxiety, 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 almost immediately after his arrival, and to win not only the approval of his noble relative and commander, but his commission. His next exploit, however, ended rather disastrously, and Peter found himself a prisoner in the now historic bird-cage at Pretoria, where he spent a dreary, restless, and perhaps not wholly unprofitable time, in the society of men greatly his superior in soldierly and other qualities.

John feared that his mother's resolution not to follow her boy must inevitably be broken when the news of his capture reached Barracombe; but perhaps Peter's letters had repeated the peremptory injunctions of his telegram, for she never proposed to take the journey to South Africa.

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

She said little in her letters to Peter of the work at Barracombe, for John advised her that the boy would probably hardly understand the necessity for it, and she herself was doubtful of Peter's approval even if he had understood. She had too much intelligence to be doubtful 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 poor correspondent, and he made little comment on the explanatory letter regarding his father's will which John and Mr. Crawley thought proper to send him. The solicitor was justly indignant at Sir Peter's neglect to reply to this carefully thought-out and faultlessly indited epistle.

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

But his mother divined that Peter was partly offended at his own utter exclusion from any share of responsibility, and partly too much occupied to give much attention to any matter outside his soldiering. She said to herself that he was really too young to be troubled with business; and she began to believe, as the work at Barracombe advanced, that the results of so much planning and forethought must please him, after all. The consolation of working in his interests was delightful to her. Her days were filling almost miraculously, as it seemed to her, with new occupations, fresh hopes, and happier ideas, than the idle dreaming which was all that had hitherto been permitted to her. John desired her help, or her suggestions, at every turn, and constantly consulted her taste. Her artistic instinct for decoration was hardly less strong than his own, though infinitely less cultivated. He sent her the most engrossing and delightful books to repair the omission, and he brought her plans and drawings, which he begged her to copy for him. The days which had hung so heavily on her hands were scarcely long enough.

The careful restoration of the banqueting-hall necessitated new curtains and chair-covers. Lady Mary looked doubtfully at John when this matter had been decided, and then at the upholstery of the drawing-rooms facing the south terrace.

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

"They would choose bottle-green" she said, in horror; and she salved her conscience by paying for the redecoration of the drawing-rooms out of 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 affairs filled her with as much awe as amusement.

* * * * *

So the old order changed and gave place to the new at Barracombe; and the summer grew to winter, and winter to summer again; and Peter did not return, as he might, with the corps in which he had the honour to serve.

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

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

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

"Shot in the arm. Doing splendidly. Invalided home. Sailing as soon as doctor allows."

CHAPTER X

"I never complain, Canon Birch," said Lady Belstone, resignedly; "but it is a great relief, as I cannot deny, to open my mind to you, who know so well what this place used to be like in my dear brother's time."

The canon had been absent from Youlestone on a long holiday, and on his return found that the workmen, who had reigned over Barracombe for nearly two years, had at length departed.

The inhabitants had been hunted from one part of the house to another as the work proceeded; but now the usual living-rooms had been restored to their occupants, and peace and order prevailed, where all had been noise and confusion.

"I should not have known the place," said the canon, gazing round him.

"Nor I. We make a point of saying nothing," said Miss Crewys, pathetically, "but it's almost impossible not to look now and then."

"Speak for yourself, Georgina," said her sister, with asperity. "One can't look furniture out of one room and into another."

The old ladies sat forlornly in their corner by the great open hearth, whereon the logs were piled in readiness for a fire, because they often found the early June evenings chilly. But the sofa with broken springs, which they specially affected, had been mended, and recovered; and was no longer, they sadly agreed, near so comfortable as in its crippled past.

The banqueting-hall, which was the very heart of Barracombe House, had been carefully and skilfully restored to its ancient dignity.

The paint and graining, which had disfigured its mighty beams and solid panelling, had been removed; and the freshly polished oak shone forth in its noble age, shorn of all tawdry disguise.

The spaces of wall and roof between the beams, and above the panels, were now of a creamy tint not far removed, as the two indignant critics pointed out, from common whitewash. A great screen of Spanish leather sheltered the door from the vestibule, and secured somewhat more privacy for the hall as a sitting-room.

The Vandyck commanded the staircase, attracting immediate attention, as it faced the principal entry. In the wide space between the two great windows were two portraits of equal size; the famous Sir Peter Crewys, by Lely, painted to resemble, as nearly as possible, his royal master, in dress and attitude; and his brother Timothy, by Kneller.

Farmer Timothy's small, shrewd, grey eyes appeared to follow the gazer all over the hall; and his sober wearing apparel, a plain green coat without collar or cape, contrasted effectively with the cavalier's laced doublet and feathered hat.

Gone were the Early Victorian portraits; gone the big glass cases of stuffed birds and weasels; gone the round mahogany table, the waxen bouquets, and the horsehair chairs. The ancient tapestry beside the carven balustrade of the staircase remained, but it had been cleaned, and even mended.

An oak dresser, black with age, and laden with blue and white china, lurked in a shadowy corner. Comfortable easy-chairs and odd, old-fashioned settees furnished the hall. In the oriel window stood a spinning-wheel and a grandfather's chair. A great bowl of roses stood on the broad window-seat. There were roses, indeed, everywhere, and books on every table. But the crowning grievance of all was the cottage piano which John had sent to Lady Mary. The case had been specially made of hand-carven oak to match the room as nearly as might be. It was open, and beside it was a heap of music, and on it another bowl of roses.

"Ay, you may well look horrified," said Miss Crewys to the canon, whose admiration and delight were very plainly depicted on his rubicund countenance. "Where are our cloaks and umbrellas? That's what I say to Isabella. Where are our goloshes? Where is anything, indeed, that one would expect to find in a gentleman's hall? Not so much as a walking-stick. Everything to be kept in the outer hall, where tramps could as easily step in and help themselves; but our poor foolish Mary fancies that Peter will be delighted to find his old home turned upside down."

"My belief is," said Lady Belstone, "that Peter will just insist on all this wooden rubbish trotting back to the attics, where my dear granny, not being accustomed to wooden furniture, very properly hid it away. If you will believe me, canon, that dresser was brought up from the kitchen, and every single pot and pan that decorates it used to be kept in the housekeeper's room. That lumbering old chest was in the harness-room. Pretty ornaments for a gentleman's sitting-room! If Peter has grown up anything like my poor brother, he won't put up with it at all."

"I suppose, in one sense, it's Peter's house, or will be very shortly?" said the canon.

"In every sense it's Peter's house," cried Lady Belstone; "and he comes of age, thank Heaven, in October."

"I had hoped to hear he had sailed," said the canon. "No news is good news, I hope."

"The last telegram said his wound was doing well, but did not give any date for his return. Young John says we may expect him any time. I do not know what he knows about it more than any one else, however," said Miss Crewys.

"His letters give no details about himself," said Lady Belstone; "he makes no fuss about his wounded arm. He is a thorough Crewys, not given to making a to-do about trifles."

"He could only write a few words with his left hand," said Miss Crewys; "more could not have been expected of him. Yet poor Mary was quite put out, as I plainly saw, though she said nothing, because the boy had not written at greater length."

"I find they've made a good many preparations for his welcome down in the village," said the canon, "in case he should take us by surprise. So many of the officers have got passages at the last moment, unexpectedly. And we shall turn out to receive him en masse. Mr. Crewys has given us carte blanche for fireworks and flags; and they are to have a fine bean-feast."

"Our cousin John takes a great deal upon himself, and has made uncommonly free with Peter's money," said Lady Belstone, shaking her head. "I wish he may not find himself pretty nigh ruined when he comes to look into his own affairs. In my opinion, Fred Crawley is little better than a fool."

"He is most devoted to Peter's interests, my dear lady," said the canon, warmly, "and he informed me that Mr. John Crewys had done wonders in the past two years."

"He has turned the whole place topsy-turvy in two years, in my opinion," said Miss Crewys. "I don't deny that he is a rising young man, and that his manners are very taking. But what can a Cockney lawyer know, about timber, pray?"

"No man on earth, lawyer or no lawyer," said Lady Belstone, emphatically, "will ever convince me that one can be better than well."

"My sister alludes to the drains. It is a sore point, canon," said Miss Crewys. "In my opinion, it is all this modern drainage that sets up typhoid fever, and nothing else."

"Bless me!" said the canon.

"Our poor Mary has grown so dependent on John, however, that she will hear nothing against him. One has to mind one's p's and q's," said Lady Belstone.

"He planned the alterations in this very hall," said Miss Crewys, "and the only excuse he offered, so far as I could understand, was that it would amuse poor Mary to carry them out."

"Does a widow wish to be amused?" said Lady Belstone, indignantly.

"And was she amused, dear lady?" asked the canon, anxiously.

"When she saw our horror and dismay she smiled."

"Did you call that a smile, Georgina? I called it a laugh. It takes almost nothing to make her laugh nowadays."

"You would not wish her to be too melancholy," said the canon, almost pleadingly; "one so—so charming, so—"

"Canon Birch," said Lady Belstone, in awful tones, "she is a widow."

The canon was silent, displaying an embarrassment which did not escape the vigilant observation of the sisters, who exchanged a meaning glance.

"Well may you remind us of the fact, Isabella," said Miss Crewys, "for she has discarded the last semblance of mourning."

"Time flies so fast," said the canon, as though impelled to defend the absent. "It is—getting on for three years since poor Sir Timothy died."

"It is but two years and four months," said Miss Crewys.

"It is thirty-three years since the admiral went aloft," said Lady Belstone, who often became slightly nautical in phrase when alluding to her departed husband; "and look at me."

The pocket-handkerchief she held up was deeply bordered with ink.
Orthodox streamers floated on either side her severe countenance.

The canon looked and shook his head. He felt that the mysteries of a widow's garments had best not be discussed by one who dwelt, so to speak, outside them.

"Poor Mary can do nothing gradually," said Miss Crewys. "She leapt in a single hour out of a black dress into a white one."

"Her anguish when our poor Timothy succumbed to that fatal operation surpassed even the bounds of decorum," said Lady Belstone, "and yet—she would not wear a cap!"

She appealed to the canon with such a pathetic expression in her small, red-rimmed, grey eyes that he could not answer lightly.

They faced him with anxious looks and drooping, tremulous mouths. They had grown curiously alike during the close association of nearly eighty years, though in their far-off days of girlhood no one had thought them to resemble each other.

Miss Crewys crocheted a shawl with hands so delicately cared for and preserved, that they scarce showed any sign of her great age; her sister wore gloves, as was the habit of both when unoccupied, and she grasped her handkerchief in black kid fingers that trembled slightly with emotion.

The canon realized that the old ladies were seriously troubled concerning their sister-in-law's delinquencies.

"We speak to you, of course, as our clergyman," said Miss Crewys; and the poor gentleman could only bow sympathetically.

"I am an old friend," he said feelingly, "and your confidences are sacred. But I think in your very natural—er—affection for Lady Mary"—the word stuck in his throat—"you are, perhaps, over-anxious. In judging those younger than ourselves," said the canon, gallantly coupling himself with his auditors,' though acutely conscious that he was some twenty years the junior of both, "we must not forget that they recover their spirits, by a merciful dispensation of Providence, more quickly than we should ourselves in the like circumstances," said the canon, who was as light-hearted a cleric as any in England.

"They do, indeed," said Lady Belstone, emphatically; "when they can sing and play all the day and half the night, like our dear Mary and young John."

"You see the piano blocking up the hall, though Sir Timothy hated music?" said Miss Crewys.

Her own mourning was thoughtfully graduated to indicate the time which had elapsed since Sir Timothy's decease. She wore a violet silk of sombre hue, ornamented by a black silk apron and a black lace scarf. The velvet bow which served so very imperfectly as a skull-cap was also violet, intimating a semi-assuaged, but respectfully lengthened, grief for the departed.

"And now this maddest scheme of all," said Miss Crewys.

"Bless me! What mad scheme?"

"A house in London is to be hired as soon as Peter comes home."

"Is that all? But surely that is very natural. For my part, I have often wondered why none of you ever cared to go to London, if only for your shopping. I am very fond of a trip to town myself, now and then, for a few days."

"A few days, it seems, would not suffice our cousin John's notions. He is pleased to think Peter may require skilled medical attendance; and, since he wrote he was in rags, a new outfit. These, it seems, can only be obtained in the Metropolis nowadays. My brother's tailor still lives in Exeter; and with all his faults—and nobody can dislike him more than I do—I have never heard it denied that Dr. Blundell is a skilful apothecary."

"Very skilful," added Miss Crewys. "You remember, Isabella, how quickly he put your poor little Fido out of his agony."

"That is nothing; all doctors understand animals' illnesses. They kill numbers of guinea-pigs before they are allowed to try their hands on human beings," said Lady Belstone. "The point is, that if my poor brother Timothy had not been mad enough to go to London, he would have been alive at this moment. I have never heard of Dr. Blundell finding it necessary—much as I detest the man—to perform an operation on anybody."

"Apart from this painful subject, my dear lady," murmured the canon,
"I presume it is only a furnished house that Lady Mary contemplates?"

"During all the years of his married life Sir Timothy never hired a furnished house," said Miss Crewys. "The home of his fathers sufficed him."

"She may want a change?" suggested the canon.

Miss Crewys interpreted him literally. "No; she is in the best of health."

"Better than I have ever seen her, and—and gayer" said Lady
Belstone, with emphasis.

"People who are gay and bright in disposition are the very ones who—who pine for a little excitement at times," said the courageous canon. "There is so much to be seen and done and heard in London. For instance, as you say—she is passionately fond of music."

"She gets plenty. We get more than enough," said Miss Crewys, grimly.

"I mean good music;" then he recollected himself in alarm. "No, no; I don't mean hers is not charming, and Mr. John's playing is delightful, but—"

"There is an organ in the parish church," said Miss Crewys, crocheting more busily than ever. "I have heard no complaints of the choir. Have you?"

"No, no; but—besides music, there are so many other things," he said dismally. "She likes pictures, too."

"It does not look like it, canon," said Lady Belstone, sorrowfully. She waved her handkerchief towards the panelled walls. "She has removed the family portraits to the lumber-room."

"At least the Vandyck has never been seen to greater advantage," said the canon, hopefully; "and I hear the gallery upstairs has been restored and supported, to render it safe to walk upon, which will enable you to take pleasure in the fine pictures there."

"I am sadly afraid that it is not pictures that poor Mary hankers after, but theatres," said Miss Crewys. "John has persuaded her, if persuasion was needed, which I take leave to doubt, that there is nothing improper in visiting such places. My dear brother thought otherwise."

"You know I do not share your opinions on that point," said the canon.
"Though not much of a theatre-goer myself, still—"

"A widow at the theatre!" said Lady Belstone. "Even in the admiral's lifetime I did not go. Being a sailor, and not a clergyman," she added sternly, "he frequented such places of amusement. But he said he could not have enjoyed a ballet properly with me looking on. His feelings were singularly delicate." "I am afraid people must be talking about dear Mary a good deal, canon," said Miss Crewys, whisking a ball of wool from the floor to her knee with much dexterity.

Her keen eyes gleamed at her visitor through her spectacles, though her fingers never stopped for a moment.

"I hope not. I've heard nothing."

"My experience of men," said Lady Belstone, "is that they never do hear anything. But a widow cannot be too cautious in her behaviour. All eyes are fixed, I know not why, upon a widow," she added modestly.

"We do our best to guard dear Mary's reputation," said Miss Crewys.

The impetuous canon sprang to his feet with a half-uttered exclamation; then recollecting the age and temperament of the speaker, he checked himself and tried to laugh.

"I do not know," he said, "who has said, or ever could say, one single word against that—against our dear and sweet Lady Mary. But if there is any one, I can only say that such word had better not be uttered in my presence, that's all."

"Dear me, Canon Birch, you excite yourself very unnecessarily," said Lady Belstone, with assumed surprise. "You are just confirming our suspicions."

"What suspicions?" almost shouted the canon,

"That our dear Lady Mary's extraordinary partiality for our cousin
John has not escaped the observation of a censorious world."

"Though we have done our best never to leave him alone with her for a single moment," interpolated Miss Crewys.

The canon turned rather pale. "There can be no question of censure," he said. "Lady Mary is a very charming and beautiful woman. Who could dare to blame her if she contemplated such a step as—as a second marriage?"

"A second marriage! We said nothing of a second marriage," said Lady Belstone, sharply. "You go a great deal too fast, canon. Luckily, our poor Mary is debarred from any such act of folly. I have no patience with widows who re-marry."

"Debarred from a second marriage!"

"Is it possible you don't know?"

The sisters exchanged meaning glances.

He looked from one to the other in bewilderment.

"If our sister-in-law remarries," said Miss Crewys, "she forfeits the whole of her jointure."

"Is that all?" he cried.

"Is that all!" echoed Miss Crewys, much offended. "It is no less than two thousand a year. In my opinion, far too heavy a charge on poor Peter's estate."

"No man with any self-respect," said Lady Belstone, "would desire to marry a widow without a jointure. I should have formed a low opinion, indeed, of any gentleman who asked me to marry him without first making sure that the admiral had provided for me as he ought, and as he has."