Peter's Mother Part 26

The old ladies paused in the doorway; they were particular in such matters.

"I believe I take precedence, Georgina," said Lady Belstone, apologetically.

"I am far from disputing it, Isabella," said Miss Crewys, drawing back with great dignity. "You are the elder."

"Age does not count in these matters. I take precedence, as a married woman. Will you bring up the rear, Georgina, as my poor admiral would have said?"

Miss Crewys bestowed a parting toss of the head upon the doctor, and followed her victorious sister.

The doctor laughed silently to himself, standing in the pretty shady drawing-room; now gay with flowers, and chintz, and Dresden china.

"I wonder if she would not have been even more annoyed with my presumption if I _had_ offered her my arm," he said to himself, amusedly, "than she is offended by my neglect to do so?"

He did not follow the others into the blinding sunshine of the terrace. He had had a long morning's work, and was hot and tired. He looked at his watch.

"Past one o'clock; h'm! we are lucky if we get anything to eat before half-past two. All the servants have run out, of course. No use ringing for whisky and seltzer. All the better. But, at least, one can rest."

The pleasantness of the room refreshed his spirit. The interior of his own house in Brawnton was not much more enticing than the exterior.

The doctor had no time to devote to such matters. He sat down very willingly in a big armchair, and enjoyed a moment's quiet in the shade; glancing through the half-closed green shutters at the brilliant picture without.

The top level of the terrace garden was carpeted with pattern beds of heliotrope, and lobelia, and variegated foliage. Against the faint blue-green of the opposite hill rose the grey stone urns on the pillars of the balcony; and from the urns hung trailing ivy geraniums with pink or scarlet blossom, making splashes of colour on the background of grey distance. Round the pillars wound large blue clematis, and white pa.s.sion-flowers.

Lady Mary stood full in the sunshine, which lent once more the golden glory of her vanished youth to her brown hair, and the dazzle of new-fallen snow to her summer gown.

Close to her side, touching her, stood the young soldier; straight and tall, with uncovered head, towering above the little group.

The old sisters had parasols, and the canon wore his shovel hat; but the doctor wasted no time in observing their manifestations of delight and excitement.

"So my beautiful lady has got her precious boy back safe and sound, save for his right arm, and doubly precious because that is missing.

G.o.d bless her a thousand times!" he thought to himself. "But her sweet face looked more sorrowful than joyful when I came in. What had he been saying, I wonder, to make her look like that, _already_?"

John Crewys entered from the hall. "What's this I hear," he said, in glad tones--"the hero returned?"

"Ay," said the doctor. "Sir Timothy is forgotten, and Sir Peter reigns in his stead."

"Where is Lady Mary?"

The doctor drew him to the window. "There," he said grimly. "Why don't you go out and join her?"

"She has her son," said John, smiling.

He looked with interest at the group on the terrace; then he started back with an exclamation of horror.

"Why, good heavens--"

"Yes," said the doctor quietly, "the poor fellow has lost his right arm."

There was a sound of distant cheering, and the band could be heard faintly playing the _Conquering Hero_.

"He said nothing of it," said John.

"No; he's a plucky chap, with all his faults."

"Has he so many faults?" said John.

The doctor shook his head. "I'm mistaken if he won't turn out a chip of the old block. Though he's better-looking than his father, he's got Sir Timothy's very expression."

"He's turned out a gallant soldier, anyway," said John, cheerily.

"Don't croak, Blundell; we'll make a man of him yet."

"Please G.o.d you may, for his mother's sake," said the doctor; and he returned to his armchair.

John Crewys stood by the open French window, and drank in the refreshing breeze which fluttered the muslin curtains. His calm and thoughtful face was turned away from the doctor, who knew very well why John's gaze was so intent upon the group without.

"Shall I warn him, or shall I let it alone?" thought Blundell. "I suppose they have been waiting only for this. If that selfish cub objects, as he will--I feel very sure of that--will she be weak enough to sacrifice her happiness, or can I trust John Crewys? He looks strong enough to take care of himself, and of her."

He looked at John's decided profile, silhouetted against the curtain, and thought of Peter's narrow face. "Weak but obstinate," he muttered to himself. "Shrewd, suspicious eyes, but a receding chin. What chance would the boy have against a man? A man with strength to oppose him, and brains to outwit him. None, save for the one undoubted fact--the boy holds his mother's heart in the hollow of his careless hands."

There was a tremendous burst of cheering, no longer distant, and the band played louder.

Lady Mary came hurrying across the terrace. Weeping and agitated, and half blinded by her tears, she stumbled over the threshold of the window, and almost fell into John's arms. He drew her into the shadow of the curtain.

"John," she cried; she saw no one else. "Oh, I can't bear it! Oh, Peter, Peter, my boy, my poor boy!"

The doctor, with a swift and noiseless movement, turned the handle of the window next him, and let himself out on to the terrace.

When John looked up he was already gone. Lady Mary did not hear the slight sound.

"Oh, John," she said, "my boy's come home--but--but--"

"I know," John said, very tenderly.

"I was afraid of breaking down before them all," she whispered. "Peter was afraid I should break down, and I felt my weakness, and came away."

"To me," said John.

His heart beat strongly. He drew her more closely into his arms, deeply conscious that he held thus, for the first time, all he loved best in the world.

"To you," said poor Lady Mary, very simply; as though aware only of the rest and support that refuge offered, and not of all of its strangeness. "Alas! it has grown so natural to come to _you_ now."

"It will grow more natural every day," said John.

She shook her head. "There is Peter now," she said faintly. Then, looking into his face, she realized that John was not thinking of Peter.

For a moment's s.p.a.ce Lady Mary, too, forgot Peter. She leant against the broad shoulder of the man who loved her; and felt as though all trouble, and disappointment, and doubt had slidden off her soul, and left her only the blissful certainty of happy rest.

Then she laid her hand very gently and entreatingly on his arm.

"I will not let you go," said John. "You came to me--at last--of your own accord, Mary."