Peter's Mother Part 32

"I know; I understand," said Lady Mary; "but I am afraid Peter won't want to stir from home. He is so glad to be back, poor boy, one can hardly blame him; and he shares his father's prejudices against London."

"Does he, indeed?" said John, rather dryly. "Well, make the most of your summer with him. _You_ will get only too much London--in the near future."

"Perhaps," Lady Mary said, smiling.

But, in spite of herself, John's confidence communicated itself to her.

When Peter and John had departed, Lady Mary went and sat alone in the quiet of the fountain garden, at the eastern end of the terrace. The thick hedges and laurels which sheltered it had been duly thinned and trimmed, to allow the entrance of the morning sunshine. Roses and lilies bloomed brightly round the fountain now, but it was still rather a lonely and deserted spot, and silent, save for the sighing of the wind, and the tinkle of the dropping water in the stone basin.

A young copper beech, freed from its rankly increasing enemies of branching laurel and encroaching bramble, now spread its glory of transparent ruddy leaf in the sunshine above trim hedges, here and there diversified by the pale gold of a laburnum, or the violet cl.u.s.ters of a rhododendron in full flower. Rare ferns fringed the edges of the little fountain, where diminutive reptiles whisked in and out of watery homes, or sat motionless on the brink, with fixed, gla.s.sy eyes.

Lady Mary had come often to this quiet corner for rest and peace and solitude in days gone by. She came often still, because she had a fancy that the change in her favourite garden was typical of the change in her life,--the letting-in of the sunshine, where before there had been only deepest shade; the pinks and forget-me-nots which were gaily blowing, where only moss and fungi had flourished; the blooming of the roses, where the undergrowth had crossed and recrossed withered branches above bare, black soil.

She brought her happiness here, where she had brought her sorrow and her repinings long ago.

A happiness subdued by many memories, chastened by long anxiety, obscured by many doubts, but still happiness.

There was to be no more of that heart-breaking anxiety. Her boy had been spared to come home to her; and John--John, who always understood, had declared that, for the present, at least, Peter must come first.

The whole beautiful summer lay before her, in which she was to be free to devote herself to her wounded hero. She must set herself to charm away that shadow of discontent--of disapproval--that darkened Peter's grey eyes when they rested upon her; a shadow of which she had been only too conscious even before he went to South Africa.

She made a thousand excuses for him, after telling herself that he needed none.

Poor boy! he had been brought up in such narrow ways, such an atmosphere of petty distrust and fault-finding and small aims. Even his bold venture into the world of men had not enabled him to shake off altogether the influence of his early training, though it had changed him so much for the better; it had not altogether cured Peter of his old ungraciousness, partly inherited, and partly due to example.

But he had returned full of love and tenderness and penitence, though his softening had been but momentary; and when she had brought him under the changed influences which now dominated her own life, she could not doubt that Peter's nature would expand.

He should see that home life need not necessarily be gloomy; that all innocent pleasures and interests were to be encouraged, and not repressed. If he wanted to spend the summer at home--and after his long absence what could be more natural?--she would exert herself to make that home as attractive as possible. Why should they not entertain? John had said there was plenty of money. Peter should have other young people about him. She remembered a scene, long ago, when he had brought a boy of his own age in to lunch without permission.

She would have to let Peter understand how welcome she should make his friends; he must have many more friends now. While she was yet _chatelaine_ of Barracombe, it would be delightful to imbue him with some idea of the duties and pleasures of hospitality. Lady Mary's eyes sparkled at the thought of providing entertainment for many young soldiers, wounded or otherwise. They should have the best of everything. She was rich, and Peter was rich, and there was no harm in making visitors welcome in that great house, and filling the rooms, that had been silent and empty so long, with the noise and laughter of young people.

She would ask Peter about the horses to-morrow. John had purposely refrained from filling the stables which had been so carefully restored and fitted. There were very few horses. Only the cob for the dog-cart, and a pair for the carriage, so old that the coachman declared it was tempting Providence to sit behind them. They were calculated to have attained their twentieth year, and were driven at a slow jog-trot for a couple of hours every day, except Sundays, in the barouche. James Coachman informed Lady Belstone and Miss Crewys that either steed was liable to drop down dead at any moment, and that they could not expect the best of horses to last for ever; but the old ladies would neither shorten nor abandon their afternoon drive, nor consent to the purchase of a new pair. They continued to behave as though horses were immortal.

Sir Timothy's old black mare was turned out to graze, partly from sentiment, and partly because she, too, was unfitted for any practical purposes; and Peter had outgrown his pony before he went away, though he had ridden it to hounds many times, unknown to his father. Lady Mary thought it would be a pleasure to see her boy well mounted and the stables filled. John had said that the loss of his arm would certainly not prevent Peter from riding. She found herself constantly referring to John, even in her plans for Peter's amus.e.m.e.nt.

Strong, calm, patient John--who was prepared to wait; and who would not, as he said, s.n.a.t.c.h happiness at the expense of other people's feelings. How wise he had been to agree that, for the present, she must devote herself only to Peter! She and Peter would be all in all to each other as Peter himself had suggested, and as she had once dreamed her son would be to his mother; though, of course, it was not to be expected that a boy could understand everything, like John.

She must make great allowances; she must be patient of his inherited prejudices; above all, she must make him happy.

Afterwards, perhaps, when Peter had learned to do without her--as he would learn too surely in the course of nature--she would be free to turn to John, and put her hand in his, and let him lead her whithersoever he would.

Peter saw his guardian off at Brawnton, dutifully standing at attention on the platform until the train had departed, instead of starting home as John suggested.

When he came out of the station he stood still for a moment, contemplating the stout, brown cob and the slim groom, who was waiting anxiously to know whether Sir Peter would take the reins, or whether he was to have the honour of driving his master home.

"I think I'll walk back, George," said Peter, with a nonchalant air.

"Take the cob along quietly, and let her ladyship know directly you get in that I'm returning by Hewelscourt woods, and the ferry."

"Very good, Sir Peter," said the youth, zealously.

"It would be only civil to look in on the Hewels as Sarah is going back to town so soon," said Peter to himself. "And it's rot driving all those miles on the sunny side of the river, when it's barely three miles from here to Hewelscourt and the ferry, and in the shade all the way. I shall be back almost as soon as the cart."

A little old lady, dressed in shabby black silk, looked up from the corner of the sofa next the window, when Peter entered the drawing-room at Hewelscourt, after the usual delay, apologies, and barking of dogs which attends the morning caller at the front door of the average country house.

Peter, who had expected to see Mrs. Hewel and Sarah, repented himself for a moment that he had come at all when he beheld this stranger, who regarded him with a pair of dark eyes that seemed several times too large for her small, wrinkled face, and who merely nodded her head in response to his awkward salutation.

"Ah!" said the old lady, rather as though she were talking to herself, "so this is the returned hero, no doubt. How do you do? The rejoicing over your home-coming kept me awake half the night."

Peter was rather offended at this free-and-easy method of address. It seemed to him that, since the old lady evidently knew who he was, she might be a little more respectful in her manner.

"The festivities were all over soon after eleven," he said stiffly.

"But perhaps you are accustomed to early hours?"

"Perhaps I am," said the old lady; she seemed more amused than abashed by Peter's dignity of demeanour. "At any rate, I like my beauty sleep to be undisturbed; more especially in the country, where there are so many noises to wake one up from four o'clock in the morning onwards."

"I have always understood," said Peter, who inherited his father's respect for plat.i.tudes, "that the country was much quieter than the town. I suppose you live in a town?"

"I suppose I do," said the old lady.

Peter put up his eyegla.s.s indignantly, to quell this disrespectful old woman with a frigid look, modelled upon the expression of his board-ship hero.

The door opened suddenly.

He dropped his eyegla.s.s with a start. But it was only Mrs. Hewel who entered, and not Sarah, after all.

Her _embonpoint_, and consequently her breathlessness, had much increased since Peter saw her last.

"Oh, Peter," she cried, "this is nice of you to come over and see us so soon. We were wondering if you would. Dear, dear, how thankful your mother must be! I know what I was with the boys--and decorated and all--though poor Tom and Willie got nothing; but, as the papers said, it wasn't always those who deserved it most--still, I'm glad _you_ got something, anyway; it's little enough, I'm sure, to make up for--"

Then she turned nervously to the old lady. "Aunt Elizabeth, this is Sir Peter Crewys, who came home last night."

"I have already made acquaintance with Sir Peter, since you left me to entertain him," said the old lady, nodding affably.

"Lady Tintern arrived unexpectedly by the afternoon train yesterday,"

explained Mrs. Hewel, in her fl.u.s.tered manner, turning once more to Peter. "She has only been here twice before. It was such a surprise to Sarah to find her here when she came back."

Peter grew very red. Who could have supposed that this shabby old person, whom he had endeavoured to snub, was the great Lady Tintern?

"She _didn't_ find me," said the old lady. "I was in bed long before Sarah came back. I presume this young gentleman escorted her home?"

"I always send a servant across for Sarah whenever she stays at all late at Barracombe, and always have," said Mrs. Hewel, in hurried self-defence. "You must remember we are old friends; there never was any formality about her visits to Barracombe."

"My guardian and I walked down to the ferry, and saw her across the river, of course," said Peter, rather sulkily.

"But her maid was with her," cried Mrs. Hewel.

"Of course," Peter said again, in tones that were none too civil.

After all, who was Lady Tintern that she should call him to task? And as if there could be any reason why her oldest playmate should not see Sarah home if he chose.