Peter's Mother Part 39

A sudden desire to laugh aloud seized Lady Mary. His former words returned upon her memory.

"It's--it's rather damp, isn't it?" she said, in a shaking voice.

He looked into her face, and did not understand the brightness of the smile that was shining through her tears.

"But it's very picturesque," said Peter, "and--and roomy. You and my aunts would be quite snug there; and it could be very prettily decorated, Sarah says."

"Perhaps Sarah would advise us on the subject?" said Lady Mary, unable to resist this thrust.

"I'm sure she'd be delighted," said Peter, simply.

Lady Mary fell back on her cushions and laughed helplessly, almost hysterically.

"I don't see why you should laugh," said Peter, in a rather sore tone.

"I don't know how it is, but I never _can_ understand you, mother."

"I see you can't. Never mind, Peter," said Lady Mary. She sat up, and lifted her pretty hands to smooth the soft waves of her brown hair.

"So I'm to settle down happily in my Dower House, and take your aunts to live with me?"

"Why, you see," said Peter, "we couldn't very well let the poor old things wander away alone into the world, could we?"

"I think," said Lady Mary, slowly, "that they can take care of themselves. And it is just possible that they may have foreseen--your change of intentions."

"Women can never take care of themselves," said Peter. "And how can they have foreseen? I had no idea myself of _this_ happening. But they would be perfectly happy in the Dower House; it is close by, and I could see them very often. It wouldn't be like leaving Barracombe."

"Yes, I think they could be happy there," said Lady Mary. She felt that the moment had come at last. Her heart beat thickly, and her colour came and went. "But if _they_ were happily settled at the Dower House," she said slowly, for her agitation was making her breathless, and she did not want Peter to notice it,"--I would willingly give it up to them altogether. It could not matter whether _I_ were there or not. Though they are old, they are perfectly able to look after themselves--and other people; and if they were not, they would not like _me_ to take care of them. They have their own servants and Mrs. Ash. And they have never liked me, Peter, though we have lived together so many years."

"That is nonsense," said Peter, very calmly; "and if _they_ don't want you there, mother, _I_ do. Of course you must live at the Dower House; my father left it to you. And I shall want you more than ever now."

"I don't see how," said Lady Mary.

"Why, _we_--Sarah and I," said Peter, lingering fondly over the words which linked that beloved name with his own, "if we ever--if _it_ ever came off--we shall naturally be away from home a good deal. I couldn't ask Sarah to tie herself down to this dull old place, could I?"

"I suppose not," said Lady Mary.

"She's accustomed to going about the world a good deal," said Peter.

"No doubt."

"Even _I_," said Peter, turning a flushed face towards his mother--"I am too young, as Sarah says--and I feel it myself since I have seen something of the life she lives--to become a complete fixture, like my father was. It's--it's, as Sarah says--it's narrowing. I can see the effects of it upon you all," said Peter, calmly, "when I come back here."

He could not fathom the wistfulness which clouded the blue eyes she lifted to his face.

"It is very narrowing," she said humbly.

"One may devote one's self to one's duties as a landed proprietor,"

said Peter, with another recurrence of pomposity, "and yet see something of one's fellow-men."

He replaced the eyegla.s.s, and walked up and down the room for a few moments, as though he were pacing a quarter-deck. He looked very tall, and very, very slight and thin; older than his years, tanned and dried by the African sun, which had enhanced his natural darkness. Though he spoke as a boy, he looked like a man. His mother's heart yearned over him.

Peter had taken his lack of perception with him into the heart of South Africa, and brought it back intact. Because his body had travelled many hundreds of miles over land and sea, he believed that his mind had opened in proportion to the distance covered. He knew that men and women of action pick up knowledge of the world without pausing on their busy way; but he did not know that it is to the silent, the sorrowful, and the solitary--to those who have time to listen--that G.o.d reveals the secrets of life.

She said to herself that everything about him was dear to her; his grey eyes, that never saw below the surface of things; his thin, brown face; his youthful affectation; the strange, new growth which shaded his long upper lip, and softened the plainness of the Crewys physiognomy, which Peter would not have bartered for the handsomest set of Greek features ever imagined by a sculptor. Even for his faults Lady Mary had a tender toleration; for Peter would not have been Peter without them.

"It would not be fair on Sarah, knowing all London--worth knowing--as she does," said Peter with pardonable exaggeration, "to rob her of the season altogether. We shall go up regularly, every year, if--if she marries me. Of that I am determined, and so"--incidentally--"is she."

"Nothing could be nicer," said Lady Mary, heartily enough to satisfy even Peter.

He spoke with more warmth and naturalness. "She likes to go abroad, mother, too, now and then," he said.

"That would be delightful," said Lady Mary, eagerly. Her blue eyes sparkled. Her interest and enthusiasm were easily roused, after all; and surely these new ideas would make it much easier to tell Peter.

"Oh, Peter!" she said, clasping her hands, "Paris--Rome--Switzerland!"

"Wherever Sarah fancies," said Peter, magnanimously. "I can't say I care much. All I am thinking of is--being with her. It doesn't matter _where_, so long as she is pleased. What does anything matter," he said, and his dark face softened as she had never seen it soften yet, "so long as one is with the companion one loves best in the world?"

"It would be--Paradise," said Lady Mary, in a low voice; and she thought to herself resolutely, "I will tell him now."

Peter ceased his walk, and came close to her and took her hand. The emotion had not altogether died out of his voice and face.

"But you are not to think, mother, that I shall ever again be the selfish boy I used to be--the boy who didn't value your love and devotion."

"No, dear, no," she answered, with wet eyes; "I will never think so. We can love each other just the same, perhaps even batter, even though--Oh, Peter--"

But Peter was in no mind to brook interruption. He was burning to pour out his plans for her future, and his own.

"Wherever we may go, and whatever we may be doing," he said emotionally, "it will be a joy and a comfort to me to know that my dear old mother is always _here_. Taking care of the place and looking after the people, and waiting always to welcome me, with her old sweet smile on her dear old face."

Peter was not often moved to such enthusiasm, and he was almost overcome by his own eloquence in describing this beautiful picture.

Lady Mary was likewise overcome. She sank back once more in her cushioned corner, looking at him with a blank dismay that could not escape even his dull observation. How impossible it was to tell Peter, after all! How impossible he always made it!

"I know you must feel it just at first," he said anxiously; "but you--you can't expect to keep me all to yourself for ever."

She shook her head, and tried to smile.

He grew a little impatient. "After all," he said, "you must be reasonable, mother. Every one has to live his own life."

Then Lady Mary found words. A sudden rush of indignation--the pent-up feelings of years--brought the scarlet blood to her cheeks and the fire to her gentle, blue eyes.

"Every one--but _me_" she said, trembling violently.

"You!" said Peter, astonished.

She clasped her hands against her bosom to still the panting and throbbing that, it seemed to her, must be evident outwardly, so strong was the emotion that shook her fragile form.

"Every one--but me," she said. "Does it never--strike you--Peter--that I, too, would like to live before I die? Whilst you are living your own life, why shouldn't I be living mine? Why shouldn't _I_ go to London, and to Paris, and to Rome, and to Switzerland, or wherever I choose, now that you--_you_--have set me free?"

"Mother," said Peter, aghast, "are you gone mad?"