Peter's Mother Part 19

"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 amus.e.m.e.nt.

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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sing 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 n.o.ble age, shorn of all tawdry disguise.

The s.p.a.ces 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 princ.i.p.al entry. In the wide s.p.a.ce 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 att.i.tude; 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 gla.s.s cases of stuffed birds and weasels; gone the round mahogany table, the waxen bouquets, and the horsehair chairs. The ancient tapestry beside the carven bal.u.s.trade 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 pa.s.sages at the last moment, unexpectedly. And we shall turn out to receive him _en ma.s.se_. 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 c.o.c.kney 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 embarra.s.sment which did not escape the vigilant observation of the sisters, who exchanged a meaning glance.