Peter's Mother Part 3

"He's a chip of the old block, no doubt," said the canon; "but still"--his admiration of Peter's boldness was perceptible in his voice--"he doesn't share his father's reprehensible opinions on the subject of the war."

"Sons generally begin life by differing from their fathers, and end by imitating them," said Blundell, sharply. "Birch, we must stop him."

"I don't see how," said the canon; and he indulged in a gentle chuckle. "The young rascal has laid his plans too well. He sails to-morrow. I telegraphed inquiries. Ferries' Horse are going by the _Rosmore Castle_ to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock."

Dr. Blundell made an involuntary movement, which the canon did not perceive.

"I don't relish the notion of breaking this news to Sir Timothy. But I thought we could consult together, you and me, how to do it," said the innocent gentleman. "There's no doubt, you know, that it must be done at once, or he can't get to Southampton in time to see the boy off and forgive him. I suppose even Sir Timothy will forgive him at such a moment. G.o.d bless the lad!"

Dr. Blundell uttered an exclamation that did not sound like a blessing.

"Look here, Birch," he said, "this is no time to mince matters. If the boy can't be stopped--and under the circ.u.mstances he's got us on toast--he can't cry off active service--_as_ the boy can't be stopped, you must just keep this news to yourself."

"But I must tell Sir Timothy!"

"You must _not_ tell Sir Timothy."

"Though all my sympathies are with the boy--for I'm a patriot first, and a parson afterwards--G.o.d forgive me for saying so," said Birch, in a trembling voice, "yet I can't take the responsibility of keeping Peter's father in ignorance of his action. I see exactly what you mean, of course. Sir Timothy will make unpleasantness, and very likely telegraph to his commanding officer, and disgrace the poor boy before his comrades; and shout at me, a thing I can't bear; and you kindly think to spare me--and Peter. But I can't take the responsibility of keeping it dark, for all that," said the canon, shaking his head regretfully.

"_I_ take the responsibility," said the doctor, shortly. "As Sir Timothy's physician, I forbid you to tell him."

"Is Sir Timothy ill?" The canon's light eyes grew rounder with alarm.

"He is to undergo a dangerous operation to-morrow morning."

"G.o.d bless my soul!"

"He desires this evening--possibly his last on earth--to be a calm and unclouded one," said the doctor. "Respect his wishes, Birch, as you would respect the wishes of a dying man."

"Do you mean he won't get over it?" said the canon, in a horrified whisper.

"You always want the _t's_ crossed and the _i's_ dotted," said Blundell, impatiently. "Of course there is a chance--his only chance.

He's a d----d plucky old fellow. I never thought to like Sir Timothy half so well as I do at this moment."

"I hope I don't _dislike_ any man," faltered the canon. "But--"

"Exactly," said the doctor, dryly.

"But what shall I do with Peter's letter?" said the unhappy recipient.

"Not one word to Sir Timothy. Agitation or distress of mind at such a moment would be the worst thing in the world for him."

"But I can't let Peter sail without a word to his people. And his mother. Good G.o.d, Blundell! Is Lady Mary to lose husband and son in one day?"

"Lady Mary," said the doctor, bitterly, "is to be treated, as usual, like a child, and told nothing of her husband's danger till it's over.

As for Peter--well, devoted mother as she is, she must be pretty well accustomed by this time to the captious indifference of her spoilt boy. She won't be surprised, though she may be hurt, that he should coolly propose to set off without bidding her good-bye."

"Couldn't we tell her in confidence about Peter?" said the canon, struck with a brilliant idea.

"Certainly not; she would fly to him at once, and leave Sir Timothy alone in his extremity."

"Couldn't we tell her in confidence about Sir Timothy?"

"I have allowed Sir Timothy to understand that neither you nor I will betray his secret."

"I'm no hand at keeping a secret," said the canon, unhappily.

"Nonsense, canon, nonsense," said Dr. Blundell, laying a friendly hand on his shoulder. "No man in your profession, or in mine, ought to be able to say that. Pull yourself together, hope for the best, and play your part."

CHAPTER III

John Crewys looked round the hall at Barracombe House with curious, interested eyes.

It was divided from the outer vestibule on the western side of the building by a ma.s.sive part.i.tion of dark oak, and it retained the solid beams and panelled walls of Elizabethan days; but the oak had been barbarously painted, grained and varnished. Only the staircase was so heavily and richly carved, that it had defied the ingenuity of the comb engraver. It occupied the further end of the hall, opposite the entrance door, and was lighted dimly by a small heavily leaded, stained-gla.s.s window. The floor was likewise black, polished with age and the labour of generations. A deeply sunken nail-studded door led into a low-ceiled library, containing a finely carved frieze and cornice, and an oak mantelpiece, which John Crewys earnestly desired to examine more closely; the s.h.i.+eld-of-arms above it bore the figures of 1603, but the hall itself was of an earlier date.

Parallel to it was the suite of lofty, modern, green-shuttered reception-rooms, which occupied the south front of the house, and into which an opening had been cut through the ma.s.sive wall next the chimney.

The character of the hall was, however, completely destroyed by the decoration which had been bestowed upon it, and by the furniture and pictures which filled it.

John Crewys looked round with more indignation than admiration at the home of his ancestors.

In the great oriel window stood a round mahogany table, bearing a bouquet of wax flowers under a gla.s.s shade. Cases of stuffed birds ornamented every available recess; mahogany and horsehair chairs were set stiffly round the walls at even distances. A heap of folded moth-eaten rugs and wraps disfigured a side-table, and beneath it stood a row of clogs and goloshes.

Round the walls hung full-length portraits of an early Victorian date.

The artist had spent a couple of months at Barracombe fifty years since, and had painted three generations of the Crewys family, who were then gathered together beneath its hospitable roof. His diligence had been more remarkable than his ability. At any other time John Crewys would have laughed outright at this collection of works of art.

But the air was charged with tragedy, and he could not laugh. His seriousness commended him favourably, had he known it, to the two old ladies, his cousins, Sir Timothy's half-sisters, who were seated beside the great log fire, and who regarded him with approving eyes.

For their stranger cousin had that extreme gentleness and courtesy of manner and regard, which sometimes accompanies unusual strength, whether of character or of person.

It was a pity, old Lady Belstone whispered to her spinster sister, that John was not a Crewys, for he had a remarkably fine head, and had he been but a little taller and slimmer, would have been a credit to the family.

Certainly John was not a Crewys. He possessed neither grey eyes, nor a large nose, nor the height which should be attained by every man and woman bearing that name, according to the family record.

But though only of middle size, and rather square-shouldered, he was, nevertheless, a distinguished-looking man, with a finely shaped head and well-cut features. Clean shaven, as a great lawyer ought to be, with a firm and rather satirical mouth, a broad brow, and bright hazel eyes set well apart and twinkling with humour. No doubt John's appearance had been a factor in his successful career.

The sisters, themselves well advanced in the seventies, spoke of him and thought of him as a young man; a boy who had succeeded in life in spite of small means, and an extravagant mother, to whom he had been obliged to sacrifice his patrimony. But though he carried his forty-five years lightly, John Crewys had left his boyhood very far behind him. His crisp dark hair was frosted on the temples; he stooped a little after the fas.h.i.+on of the desk-worker; he wore pince-nez; his manner, though alert, was composed and dignified. The restlessness, the nervous energy of youth, had been replaced by the calm confidence of middle age--of tested strength, of ripe experience.

On his side, John Crewys felt very kindly towards the venerable ladies, who represented to him all the womankind of his own race.

Both sisters possessed the family characteristics which he lacked.

They were tall and surprisingly upright, considering the weight of years which pressed upon their thin shoulders. They retained the manners--almost the speech--of the eighteenth century, to which the grandmother who was responsible for their upbringing had belonged; and, with the exception of a very short experience of matrimony in Lady Belstone's case, they had always resided exclusively at Barracombe.

Lady Belstone, besides her widowed dignity, had the advantage of her sister in appearance, mainly because she permitted art, in some degree, to repair the ravages of time. A stiff _toupet_ of white curls crowned the withered brow, below a widow's cap; and, when she smiled, which was not very often, a double row of pearls was not unpleasantly displayed. Miss Crewys had never succ.u.mbed to the temptations of worldly vanity. She scrupulously parted her scanty grey locks above her polished forehead, and cared not how wide the parting grew. If she wore a velvet bow upon her scalp, it was, as she truly said, for decency, and not for ornament; and further, she allowed her wholesome, ruddy cheeks to fall in, as her ever-lengthening teeth fell out. The frequent explanations which ensued, regarding the seniority of the widow, were a source of constant satisfaction to Miss Crewys, and vexation to her sister.