Peter's Mother Part 47

CHAPTER XXI

"The very last of the roses," said Lady Mary.

She looked round the banqueting hall. The wax candles shed a radiance upon their immediate surroundings, which accentuated the shadows of each unlighted corner. Bowls of roses, red and white and golden, bloomed delicately in every recess against the black oak of the panels.

The flames were leaping on the hearth about a fresh log thrown into the red-hot wood-ash. The two old sisters sat almost in the chimney corner, side by side, where they could exchange their confidences unheard.

Lady Belstone still mourned her admiral in black silk and _crepe_, whilst Miss Georgina's respect for her brother's memory was made manifest in plum-coloured satin.

Lady Mary, too, wore black to-night. Since the day of Peter's return she had not ventured to don her favourite white. Her gown was of velvet; her fair neck and arms shone through the yellowing folds of an old lace scarf which veiled the bosom. A string of pearls was twisted in her soft, brown hair, lending a dim crown to her exquisite and gracious beauty in the tender light of the wax candles.

Candlelight is kind to the victims of relentless time; disdaining to notice the little lines and shadows care has painted on tired faces; restoring delicacy to faded complexions, and brightness to sad eyes.

The faint illumination was less kind to Sarah, in her white gown and blue ribbons. The beautiful colour, which could face the morning sunbeams triumphantly in its young transparency, was almost too high in the warmth of the shadowy hall, where her golden-red hair made a glory of its own.

The October evening seemed chilly to the aged sisters, and even Lady Mary felt the comfort of her velvet gown; but Sarah was impatient of the heat of the log fire, and longed for the open air. She envied Peter and John, who were reported to be smoking outside on the terrace.

"The very last of the roses," said Lady Mary.

"There will be a sharp frost to-night; they won't stand that," said Sarah, shaking her head.

"The poor roses of autumn," said Lady Mary, rather dreamily, "they are never so sweet as the roses of June."

"But they are much rarer, and more precious," said Sarah.

Lady Mary looked at her and smiled. How quickly Sarah always understood!

Sarah caught her hand and kissed it impulsively. Her back was turned to the old sisters in the chimney corner.

"Lady Mary," she said, "oh, never mind if I am indiscreet; you know I am always that." A little sob escaped her. "But I _must_ ask you this one thing--you--you didn't really think _that_ of me, did you?"

"Think what, dear child?" said Lady Mary, bewildered.

Sarah looked round at the two old ladies.

The head of Miss Crewys was inclined towards the crochet she held in her lap. She slumbered peacefully.

Lady Belstone was absently gazing into the heart of the great fire.

The heat did not appear to cause her inconvenience. She was nodding.

"They will hear nothing," said Lady Mary, softly. "Tell me, Sarah, what you mean. I would ask you," she said, with a little smile and flush, "to tell me something else, only, I--too--am afraid of being indiscreet."

"There is nothing I would not tell you," murmured Sarah, "though I believe I would rather tell you--out in the dark--than here," she laughed nervously.

"The drawing-room is not lighted, except by the moon," said Lady Mary, also a little excited by the thought of what Sarah might, perhaps, be going to say; "but there is no fire there, I am afraid. The aunts do not like sitting there in the evening. But if you would not be too cold, in that thin, white gown--?"

"I am never cold," said Sarah; "I take too much exercise, I suppose, to feel the cold."

"Then come," said Lady Mary.

They stole past the sleeping sisters into the drawing-room, and closed the communicating door as noiselessly as possible.

Here only the moonlight reigned, pouring in through the uncurtained windows and rendering the gay, rose-coloured room, with its pretty contents, perfectly weird and unfamiliar.

Sarah flung her warm, young arms about her earliest and most beloved friend, and rested her bright head against the gentle bosom.

"You never thought I meant all the horrid, cruel things I made Peter say to you? You never believed it of me, did you? That I wouldn't marry him unless _you_ went away. You whom I love best in the world, and always have," she said defiantly, "or that I would ever alter a single corner of this dear old house, which used to be so hideous, and which you have made so beautiful?"

"Sarah! My--my darling!" said Lady Mary, in frightened, trembling tones.

"You needn't blame Peter for saying any of it," said Sarah, "for it was I who put the words into his mouth. It made him miserable to say them; but he could not help himself. He wasn't really quite responsible for his actions. He isn't now. When people are--are in love, I've often noticed they're not responsible."

"But why--"

"I only wanted to show him what a goose he really was," murmured Sarah, hanging her head. "He came back so pompous and superior; talking about his father's place, and being the only man in the house, and obliged to look after you all; and it was all so ridiculous, and so out of date. I didn't mean to hurt _you_ except just for a moment, because it could not be helped," said Sarah. She hid her face in Lady Mary's neck, half laughing and half crying. "I was so afraid you--you were taking him seriously; and--and he was so selfish, wanting to keep you all to himself."

"Oh, Sarah, hush!" Lady Mary cried.

She divined it all in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye. It was to Sarah that she owed the pain and mortification, not to her boy.

Sarah had said Peter was not responsible.

Was he only a puppet in the hands of the girl he loved? Could John ever have been thus blindly led and influenced? Her wounded heart said quickly that John was of a different, n.o.bler, stronger nature. But the mother's instinct leapt to defend her son, and cried also that John was a man, and Peter but a boy in love, ready to sacrifice the whole world to her he worshipped. His father would never have done that.

Lady Mary was even capable of an unreasoning pride in Peter's power of loving; though it was not her--alas! it never had been her--for whom her boy was willing to make the smallest sacrifice.

But he had honestly meant to devote himself to his mother, according to his lights, had Sarah's influence not come in the way. Sarah, who must have divined her secret all the while, and who, with the dauntlessness of youth, had not hesitated to force open the door into a world so bright that Lady Mary almost feared to enter it, but trembled, as it were, upon the threshold of her own happiness--and Peter's.

They were silent, holding each other in a close embrace, both conscious of the pa.s.sing and repa.s.sing footsteps upon the gravel path without.

Sarah was the first to recover herself. She put Lady Mary into her favourite chair, and came and knelt by her side.

"That's over, and I'm forgiven," she said softly.

"You will make my boy--happy?" whispered Lady Mary.

"I can't tell whether he will be happy or not, if--if he marries me,"

said Sarah. She appeared to smother a laugh. "But Aunt Elizabeth seems reconciled to the idea. I think you bewitched her this afternoon. She is in love with you, and with this house, and with Mr. John. But more particularly with you. When I said I had refused Peter over and over again, she said I was a fool. But she says that whatever I do. I--I suppose I let her think," said Sarah, leaning her head against Lady Mary's knee, "that _some day_--if he is still idiotic enough to wish it--and if _you_ don't mind--"

"My pretty Sarah--my darling!"

"I'm sure it's only because he's your son," said Sarah, vehemently; "I've always wanted to be your child. What's the use of pretending I haven't? Think what a time poor mamma used to give me, and what an angel of goodness you were to the poor little black sheep who loved you so."

Sarah's white dress, shining in the moonlight, caught the attention of John Crewys, through the open window. He paused in his walk outside.

Peter's voice uttered something, and the two dark figures pa.s.sed slowly on.

"They won't interrupt us," said Sarah, serenely. "I told Peter at dinner that I wanted to talk to you, and that he was to go and smoke with Mr. John, and behave as if nothing had happened. He said he hadn't spoken to him since this morning. He is all agog to know what Lady Tintern came for. But he won't dare to come and interrupt."