Peter's Mother Part 35

Habit had partially inured, though it could never reconcile them, to the appearance of that little rustic table and white cloth in Lady Mary's favourite corner of the terrace; and though they would rather have gone without their tea altogether than partake of it there, they could behold her pouring it out for herself with comparative equanimity.

"I trust you are rested, dear Mary, after your terrible long climb in the woods this morning?"

"It has been very restful sitting here. I hope you had a pleasant drive, Isabella?" "No; it was too hot to be pleasant. We pa.s.sed the rectory, and there was that idle doctor lolling in the canon's verandah--keeping the poor man from his haymaking. Has the second post come in? Any news of dear Peter?"

"None at all. You know he is not much of a correspondent, and his last letter said he would be back in a few days."

"For my part," said Lady Belstone, "I think Peter will come home the day he attains his majority, and not a moment before."

"He is hardly likely to stay in London through August and September,"

said Lady Mary, in rather displeased tones.

"Perhaps not in London; but there are other places besides London,"

said Miss Crewys, significantly. "We met Mrs. Hewel driving. _She_, poor thing, does not expect to see Sarah before Christmas, if then, from what she told us."

"She should not have let Lady Tintern adopt Sarah if she is to be for ever regretting it. It was her own doing," said Lady Mary.

"That is just what I told her," said Lady Belstone, triumphantly.

"Though how she can be regretting such a daughter I cannot conjecture."

"Sarah is a saucy creature," said Miss Crewys. "The last time I saw her she made one of her senseless jokes at me."

"She has no tact," said Lady Belstone, shaking her head; "for when Peter saw you were annoyed, and tried to pa.s.s it off by telling her the Crewys family had no sense of humour, instead of saying, 'What nonsense!' she said, 'What a pity!'"

"Her mother was full of a letter from Lady Tintern about some grand lord or other, who wanted to marry Sarah. I did my best to make her understand how very unlikely it was that any man, n.o.ble or otherwise, would care to marry a girl with carroty hair."

"I doubt if you succeeded in convincing her, Georgina, though you spoke pretty plain, and I am very far from blaming you for it. But she is ate up with pride, poor thing, because Sarah gets noticed by Lady Tintern's friends, who would naturally wish to gratify her by flattering her niece."

"I am afraid the girl is setting her cap at Peter," said Miss Crewys; "but I took care to let her mother know, casually, what our family would think of such a marriage for him."

"Peter is a boy," said Lady Mary, quickly; "and Sarah, for all practical purposes, is ten years older than he. She is only amusing herself. Lady Tintern is much more ambitious for her than I am for Peter."

"How you talk, Mary!" said Miss Crewys, indignantly. "She is hardly twenty years of age, and the most designing monkey that ever lived.

And Peter is a fine young man. A boy, indeed! I hope if she succeeds in catching him that you will remember I warned you."

"I will remember, if anything so fortunate should occur," said Lady Mary, with a faint smile. "I cannot think of any girl in the world whom I would prefer to Sarah as a daughter."

"I, for one, should walk out of this house the day that girl entered it as mistress, let Peter say what he would to prevent me," said Lady Belstone, reddening with indignation.

"I wonder where you would go to?" said Lady Mary, with some curiosity.

"Of course," she added, hastily, "there is the Dower House."

"I am sure it is very generous of you to suggest the Dower House, dear Mary," said Miss Crewys, softening, "since our poor brother, in his unaccountable will, left it entirely to you, and made no mention of his elder sisters; though we do not complain."

"It is in accordance with custom that the widow should have the Dower House. A widow's rights should be respected; but I thought our names would be mentioned," said Lady Belstone, dejectedly.

"Of course he knew," said Lady Mary, in a low voice, "that Peter's house would be always open to us all, as my boy said himself."

"Dear boy! he has said it to us too," said the sisters, in a breath.

"I don't say that, in my opinion," said Lady Mary, "it would not be wiser to leave a young married couple to themselves; I have always thought so. But Peter would not hear of your turning out of your old home; you know that very well."

"Peter would not; but nothing would induce _me_ to live under the same roof as that red-haired minx," said Lady Belstone, firmly. "And besides, as you say, my dear Mary, you could not very well live by yourself at the Dower House."

"Since Mary has been so kind as to mention it, there would be many advantages in our accompanying her there, in case Sarah should succeed in her artful aims," said Miss Crewys. "It would be near Peter, and yet not _too_ near, and we could keep an eye on _her_."

"If she does not succeed, somebody else will," said Lady Belstone, sensibly; "and, at least, we know her faults, and can put Peter on his guard against them."

A host of petty and wretched recollections poured into Lady Mary's mind as she listened to these words.

Poor Timothy; poor little hunted, scolded, despairing bride; poor married life--of futile reproaches and foolish quarrelling.

How many small miseries she owed to those ferret searching eyes, and those subtly poisonous tongues! But such miseries lurked in the dull shadows of the past. Standing now in the bright sunshine of the present, she forgave the sisters with all her heart, and thought compa.s.sionately of their great age, their increasing infirmities, their feeble hold on life.

Not to them did she owe real sorrow, after all; for nothing that does not touch the heart can reach the fountain of grief.

Peter's hand--the hand she loved best in the world--had set the waters of sorrow flowing not once, but many times; but she had become aware lately of a stronger power than Peter's guarding the spring.

She looked from one sister to the other.

Despite the narrowness of brow, and sharpness of eye and feature, they were both venerable of aspect, as they tottered up and down the terrace where they had played in their childhood and sauntered through youth and middle age to these latter days, when they leant upon silver-headed sticks, and wore dignified silk attire and respectable poke-bonnets.

"Don't you think it would be better," said Lady Mary, slowly, "if you left Peter to find out his wife's faults for himself; whether she be Sarah--or another?"

CHAPTER XVI

Torrents of falling rain obscured the valley of the Youle. The grey clouds floated below the ridges of the hills, and wreathed the tree-tops. Against the dim purple of the distance, the October roses held up melancholy, rain-washed heads; and sudden gusts of wind sent little armies of dead, brown leaves racing over the stone pavement of the terrace.

Lady Mary leant her forehead against the window, and gazed out upon the autumn landscape; and John Crewys watched her with feelings not altogether devoid of self-reproach.

Perhaps he had carried his prudent consideration too far.

His reverence for his beautiful lady--who reigned in John's inmost thoughts as both saint and queen--had caused him to determine that she must come to him, when she did come, without a shadow of self-reproach to sully the joy of her surrender, the fulness, of her bliss, in the perfect sympathy and devotion which awaited her.

But John Crewys--though pa.s.sionately desiring her companionship, and impatient of all barriers, real or imaginary, which divided her from him--yet lived a life very full of work and interest and pleasure on his own account. He was only conscious of his loneliness at times; and when he was as busy as he had been during the early half of this summer, he was hardly conscious of it at all.

He had not fully realized the effect that this time of waiting and uncertainty might have upon her, in the solitude to which he had left her, and which he had at first supposed would be altogether occupied by Peter. Her letters--infrequent as he, in his self-denial, had suggested--were characterized by a delicate reserve and a tacit refusal to take anything for granted in their relations to each other, which half charmed and half tantalized John; but scarcely enlightened him regarding the suspense and sadness which at this time she was called upon to bear.

When he came to Barracombe, he knew that she had suffered greatly during these months of his absence, and reproached himself angrily for blindness and selfishness.

He had spent the first weeks of his long vacation in Switzerland, in order to bring the date of his visit to the Youle Valley as near as possible to the date of Peter's coming of age; but, also, he had been very much overworked, and felt an absolute want of rest and change before entering upon the struggle which he supposed might await him, and for which he would probably need all the good humour and good sense he possessed. So far as he was personally concerned, there was no doubt that his proceedings had been dictated by wisdom and judgment.

The fatigue and irritability, consequent upon too much mental labour, and too little fresh air and exercise, had vanished. John was in good health and good spirits, clear of brain and eye, and vigorous of person, when he arrived at Barracombe; in the mild, wet, misty weather which heralded the approach of a typical Devonshire autumn.