Peter's Mother Part 23

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

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

Her tone was embarra.s.sed, but Peter did not notice that.

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

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

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

She kissed him silently.

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

"Oh, Peter!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I want you--and my aunts, to feel that, though I am young and inexperienced, and all that," said Peter, tenderly, "there are to be no changes."

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

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

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

"And when it _does_ arrive," said Peter, "my wife will just have to understand that she comes second. I've no notion of being led by the nose by any woman, particularly a young woman. I'm sure my father never dreamt of putting his sisters on one side, or turning them out of their place, when he married _you_, did he?"

"Never," said Lady Mary.

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

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

"Then don't you see how snug we shall be?" said Peter, triumphantly.

"I can tell you a fellow learns to appreciate home when he has been without one, so to speak, for over two years. And home wouldn't be home without you, mother dear."

Lady Mary sank suddenly back among the cushions. Her feelings were divided between dismay and self-reproach. Yet she was faintly amused too--amused at Peter and herself. Her boy had returned to her with sentiments that were surely all that a mother could desire; and yet--yet she felt instinctively that Peter was Peter still; that his thoughts were not her thoughts, nor his ways her ways. Then the self-reproach began to predominate in Lady Mary's mind. How could she criticize her boy, her darling, who had proved himself a son to be proud of, and who had come back to her with a heart so full of love and loyalty?

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

"I--I thought, when you came of age," faltered Lady Mary, "that I should give up Barracombe House to you, naturally. I could come and stay with you sometimes--whether you were married or not, you know.

And--and, of course, the Dower House _does_ belong to me."

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

"It's very picturesque," said Lady Mary, guiltily; "and I--I wasn't thinking of living there all the year round."

"Why, where on earth else could you have gone?" he demanded, regarding her with astonishment through the eyegla.s.s.

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

"London!" said Peter; "but my father had a perfect horror of London.

He wouldn't have liked it at all."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looked at him with a faint, pathetic smile.

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

"Let me come with you, darling."

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

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

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

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

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