Peter's Mother Part 42

"Of course not," said John, "I understand. You're a plain Englishman."

"Exactly," said Peter, relieved; "I am. But one thing I will say--you've got the idea."

"Thank you," said John.

"If you can put it like that to my mother," said Peter, still busy with his pipe, but speaking very emphatically, "why, all I can say is, that I believe it's the way to get round her. I've often noticed how useless it seems to talk common-sense to her. But a word of sentiment--and there you are. Strange to say, she likes nothing better than--er--poetry. I hope you don't mind my calling you rather poetical," said Peter, in a tone of sincere apology. "I wish, John, you'd go straight to my mother, and put the whole case before her, just like that."

"The whole case!" said John. "But, my dear fellow, that's only half the case."

"What do you mean?"

"The other half," said John, "is the case from _her_ point of view."

"I don't see," said Peter, "how her point of view can be different from mine."

John's thoughts flew back to a February evening, more than two years earlier. It seemed to him that Sir Timothy stood before him, surprised, pompous, argumentative. But he saw only Peter, looking at him with his father's grey eyes set in a boy's thin face.

"My experience as a barrister," he said, with a curious sense of repeating himself, "has taught me that it is possible for two persons to take diametrically opposite views of the same question."

"And what happens then?" said Peter, stupidly.

"Our bread and b.u.t.ter."

"But _why_ should my mother leave the place she's lived in for years and years, and go gadding about all over the world--at her time of life? I don't see what can be said for the wisdom of that?"

"Nothing from your point of view, I dare say," said John. "Much from hers. If you are willing to listen, and if," he added smiling, as an afterthought, "you will promise not to interrupt?"

"Well," said Peter, rather doubtfully, "all right, I promise. You won't be long, I suppose?"

He glanced stealthily down towards the ferry, though he knew that Sarah would not be there for a couple of hours at least, and that he could reach it in less than ten minutes. But half the pleasure of meeting Sarah consisted in waiting for her at the trysting-place.

John observed the glance, and smiled imperceptibly. He took out his watch.

"I shall speak," he said, carefully examining it, "for four minutes."

"Let's sit," said Peter. "It's warm enough now, in all conscience."

They sat upon an old stone bench below the turret. Peter leant back with his black head resting against the wall, his felt hat tipped over his eyes and his pipe in his mouth. He looked comfortable, even good-humoured.

"Go ahead," he murmured.

"To understand the case from your mother's point of view, I am afraid it is necessary," said John, "to take a rapid glance at the circ.u.mstances of her life which have--which have made her what she is. She came here, as a child, didn't she, when her father died; and though he had just succeeded to the earldom, he died a very poor man?

Your father, as her guardian, spared no pains, nor expense for that matter, in educating and maintaining her. When she was barely seventeen years old, he married her."

There was a slight dryness in John's voice as he made the statement, which accounted for the gruffness of Peter's acquiescence.

"Of course--she was quite willing," said John, understanding the offence implied by Peter's growl. "But as we are looking at things exclusively from her point of view just now, we must not forget that she had seen nothing of the world, nothing of other men. She had also"--he caught his breath--"a bright, gay, pleasure-loving disposition; but she moulded herself to seriousness to please her husband, to whom she owed everything. When other girls of her age were playing at love--thinking of dances, and games and outings--she was absorbed in motherhood and household cares. A perfect wife, a perfect mother, as poor human nature counts perfection."

Lady Mary would have cried out in vehement contradiction and self-reproach, had she heard these words; but Peter again growled reluctant acquiescence, when John paused.

"In one day," said John, slowly, "she was robbed of husband and child.

Her husband by death; her boy, her only son, by his own will. He deserted her without even bidding, or intending to bid her, farewell.

Hush--remember, this is from _her_ point of view."

Peter had started to his feet with an angry exclamation; but he sat down again, and bent his sullen gaze on the garden path as John continued. His brown face was flushed; but John's low, deep tones, now tender, now scornful, presently enchained and even fascinated his attention. He listened intently, though angrily.

"Her grief was pa.s.sionate, but--her life was not over," said John.

"She, who had been guided from childhood by the wishes of others, now found that, without neglecting any duty, she could consult her own inclinations, indulge her own tastes, choose her own friends, enjoy with all the fervour of an unspoilt nature the world which opened freshly before her: a world of art, of music, of literature, of a thousand interests which mean so much to some of us, so little to others. To her returns this formerly undutiful son, and finds--a pa.s.sionately devoted mother, indeed, but also a woman in the full pride of her beauty and maturity. And this boy would condemn _her_--the most delightful, the most attractive, the most unselfish companion ever desired by a man--to sit in the chimney-corner like an old crone with a distaff, throughout all the years that fate may yet hold in store for her--with no greater interest in life than to watch the fading of her own sweet face in the gla.s.s, and to await the intervals during which he would be graciously pleased to afford her the consolation of his presence."

"Have you done?" said Peter, furiously.

"I could say a good deal more," said John, growing suddenly cool.

"But"--he showed his watch--"my time is up."

"What--what do you mean by all this?" said the boy, stammering with pa.s.sion. "What is my mother to _you_?"

The time had come.

John's bright hazel eyes had grown stern; his middle-aged face, flushed with the emotion his own words had aroused, yet controlled and calm in every line of handsome feature and steady brow, confronted Peter's angry, bewildered gaze.

"She is the woman I love," said John. "The woman I mean to make my wife."

He remained seated, silently waiting for Peter to imbibe and a.s.similate his words.

After a quick gasp of incredulous indignation, Peter, too, sat silent at his side.

John gave him time to recover before he spoke again.

"I hope," he said, very gently, "that when you have thought it over, you won't mind it so much. As it's going to be--it would be pleasanter if you and I could be friends. I think, later on, you may even perceive advantages in the arrangement--under the circ.u.mstances; when you have recovered from your natural regret in realizing that she must leave Barracombe--"

"It isn't that," said Peter, hoa.r.s.ely. He felt he must speak; and he also desired, it must be confessed, to speak offensively, and relieve himself somewhat of the acc.u.mulated rage and resentment that was burning in his breast. "It's--it's simply"--he said, flushing darkly, and turning his face away from John's calm and friendly gaze--"that to me--to _me_, the idea is--ridiculous."

"Ah!" said John. He rose from the stone bench. A spark of anger came to him, too, as he looked at Peter, but he controlled his voice and his temper. "The time will come," he said, "when your imagination will be able to grasp the possibility of love between a man in the forties and a woman in the thirties. At least, for your sake, I hope it will."

"Why for my sake?" said Peter.

"Because I should be sorry," said John, "if you died young."

CHAPTER XIX

Nearly a thousand feet above the fertile valley of the Youle, stretched a waste of moorland. Here all the trees were gnarled and dwarfed above the patches of rust-coloured bracken; save only the delicate silver birch, which swayed and yielded to the wind.

Great boulders were scattered among the thorn bushes, and over their rough and glistening b.r.e.a.s.t.s were flung velvet coverings of green moss and grey lichen.