Peter's Mother Part 31

John Crewys looked at her with a smile, and held out his hand, and she stepped over the sill, and went away across the terrace garden with him.

The doctor turned his face from the crowd, and went back alone into the empty room.

"Who _doesn't_ want Lady Mary?" he said to himself, forlornly.

CHAPTER XIV

Peter stood on his own front door steps, on the shady side of the house, in the fresh air of the early morning. The unnecessary eyegla.s.s twinkled on his breast as he looked forth upon the goodliness and beauty of his inheritance. The ever-encroaching green of summer had not yet overpowered the white wealth of flowering spring; for the season was a late one, and the month of June still young.

The apple-trees were yet in blossom, and the snowy orchards were scattered over the hillsides between patches of golden gorse. The lilacs, white and purple, were in flower, amid scarlet rhododendrons and branching pink and yellow tree-azaleas. The weeping barberry showered gold dust upon the road.

On the lower side of the drive, the rolling gra.s.s slopes were thriftily left for hay; a flowering ma.s.s of daisies, and b.u.t.tercups, and red clover, and blue speedwell.

A long way off, but still clearly visible in the valley below, glistened the stone-tiled roof of the old square-towered church, guarded by its sentinel yews.

A great horse-chestnut stood like a giant bouquet of waxen bloom beside a granite monument which threw a long shadow over the green turf mounds towards the west, and marked the grave of Sir Timothy Crewys.

Peter saw that monument more plainly just now than all the rest of his surroundings, although he was short-sighted, and although his eyes were further dimmed by sudden tears.

His memories of his father were not particularly tender ones, and his grief was only natural filial sentiment in its vaguest and lightest form. But such as it was--the sight of the empty study, which was to be his own room in future; the strange granite monument s.h.i.+ning in the sun; the rush of home a.s.sociations which the familiar landscape aroused--augmented it for the time being, and made the young man glad of a moment's solitude.

There was the drooping ash--which had made such a cool, refres.h.i.+ng tent in summer--where he had learnt his first lessons at his mother's knee, and where he had kept his rabbit-hutch for a season, until his father had found it out, and despatched it to the stable-yard.

His punishments and the troubles of his childhood had always been a.s.sociated with his father, and its pleasures and indulgences with his mother; but neither had made any very strong impression on Peter's mind, and it was of his father that he thought with most sympathy, and even most affection. Partly, doubtless, because Sir Timothy was dead, and because Peter's memories were not vivid ones, any more than his imagination was vivid; but also because his mind was preoccupied with a vague resentment against his mother.

He could not understand the change which was, nevertheless, so evident. Her new-born brightness and ease of manner, and her strangely increased loveliness, which had been yet more apparent on the previous evening, when she was dressed for dinner, than on his first arrival.

It was absurd, Peter thought, in all the arrogance of disdainful youth, that a woman of her age should have learnt to care for her appearance thus; or to wear becoming gowns, and arrange her hair like a fas.h.i.+on plate.

If it had been Sarah he could have understood.

At the thought of Sarah the colour suddenly flushed across his thin, tanned face, and he moved uneasily.

Sarah, too, was changed; but not even Peter could regret the change in Sarah.

The loveliness of his mother, refined and white and delicate as she was, did not appeal to him; but Sarah, in her radiant youth, with her brilliant colouring--fresh as a May morning, buxom as a dairymaid, scornful as a princess--had struck Sir Peter dumb with admiration, though he had hitherto despised young women. It almost enraged him to remember that this stately beauty had ever been an impudent little schoolgirl, with a turned-up nose and a red pigtail. In days gone by, Miss Sarah had actually fought and scratched the spoilt boy, who tried to tyrannize over his playmate as he tyrannized over his mother and his aunts. On the other hand, the recollection of those early days also became precious to Peter for the first time.

Sarah!

It was difficult to be sentimental on the subject, but difficulties are easily surmounted by a lover; and though Sarah's childhood afforded few facilities for ecstatic reverie, still--there had been moments, and especially towards the end of the holidays, when he and Sarah had walked on the banks of the river, with arms round each other's necks, sharing each other's toffee and confidences.

Poor Sarah had been first despatched to a boarding school as unmanageable, at the age of seven, and thereafter her life had been a changeful one, since her father could not live without her, and her mother would not keep her at home. She had always presented a lively contrast to her elder brothers, who were all that a parent's heart could desire, and too old to be much interested in their little rebellious sister.

Her high spirits survived disgrace and punishment and periodical banishment. Though not dest.i.tute of womanly qualities, she was more remarkable for hoydenish ones; and her tastes were peculiar and varied. If there were a pony to break in, a sick child to be nursed, a groom to scold, a pig to be killed--there was Sarah; but if a frock to try on, a visit to be paid, a note to be written--where was she?

Peter, recalling these things, tried to laugh at himself for his extraordinary infatuation of the previous day; but he knew very well in his heart that he could not really laugh, and that he had lain awake half the night thinking of her.

Sarah had spent the rest of the day at Barracombe after Peter's return, and had been escorted home late in the evening. Could he ever forget those moments on the terrace, when she had paced up and down beside him, in the pleasant summer darkness; her white neck and arms gleaming through transparent black tulle; sometimes listening to the sounds of music and revelry in the village below, and looking at the rockets that were being let off on the river-banks; and sometimes asking him of the war, in that low voice which thrilled Peter as it had already thrilled not a few interested hearers before him?

Those moments had been all too few, because John Crewys also had monopolized a share of Miss Sarah's attention. Peter did not dislike his guardian, whose composed courtesy and absolute freedom from self-consciousness, or any form of affectation, made it difficult indeed not to like him. His remarks made Peter smile in spite of himself, though he could not keep the ball of conversation rolling like Miss Sarah, who was not at all afraid of the great counsel, but matched his pleasant wit, with a most engaging impudence all her own.

Lady Mary had stood clasping her son's arm, full of thankfulness for his safe return; but she, too, had been unable to help laughing at John, who purposely exerted himself to amuse her and to keep her from dwelling upon their parting on the morrow.

Her thoughtful son insisted that she must avoid exposure to the night air, and poor Lady Mary had somewhat ruefully returned to the society of the old ladies within; but John Crewys did not, as he might, and as Peter had supposed he would, join the other old folk. Peter cla.s.sed his mother and aunts together, quite calmly, in his thoughts. He listened to Sarah's light talk with John, watching her like a man in a dream, hardly able to speak himself; and it is needless to say that he found her chatter far more interesting and amusing than anything John could say.

Who could have dreamt that little Sarah would grow up into this bewitching maiden? There was a girl coming home on board s.h.i.+p, the young wife of an officer, whom every one had raved about and called so beautiful. Peter almost laughed aloud as he contrasted Sarah with his recollections of this lady.

How easy it was to talk to Sarah! How much easier than to his mother; whom, nevertheless, he loved so dearly, though always with that faint dash of disapproval which somehow embittered his love.

He could not shake off the impression of her first appearance, coming singing down the oak staircase, in her white gown. _His mother!_ Dressed almost like a girl, and, worst of all, looking almost like a girl, so slight and white and delicate. Peter recollected that Sir Timothy had been very particular about his wife's apparel. He liked it to be costly and dignified, and she had worn stiff silks and poplins inappropriate to the country, but considered eminently suited to her position by the Brawnton dressmaker. And her hair had been parted on her forehead, and smoothed over her little ears. Sir Timothy did not approve of curling-irons and frippery.

Peter did not know that his mother had cried over her own appearance often, before she became indifferent; and if he had known, he would have thought it only typical of the weakness and frivolity which he had heard attributed to Lady Mary from his earliest childhood.

His aunts were not intentionally disloyal to their sister-in-law; but their disapproval of her was too strong to be hidden, and they regarded a little boy as blind and deaf to all that did not directly concern his lessons or his play. Thus Peter had grown up loving his mother, but disapproving of her, and the disapproval was sometimes more apparent than the love.

After breakfast the new squire took an early walk with his guardian, and inspected a few of the changes which had taken place in the administration of his tiny kingdom. Though Peter was young and inexperienced, he could not be blind to the immense improvements made.

He had left a house and stables shabby and tumble-down and out of repair; rotting woodwork, worn-off paint, and missing tiles had been painfully evident. Broken fences and hingeless gates were the rule, and not the exception, in the grounds.

Now all deficiencies had been made good by a cunning hand that had allowed no glaring newness to be visible; a hand that had matched old tiles, and patched old walls, and planted creepers, and restored an almost magical order and comfort to Peter's beautiful old house.

Where Sir Timothy's grumbling tenants had walked to the nearest brook for water, they now found pipes brought to their own cottage doors.

The home-farm, stables, yards, and cowsheds were drained and paved; fallen outbuildings replaced, uneven roads gravelled and rolled; dead trees removed, and young ones planted, shrubberies trimmed, and views long obscured once more opened out.

Peter did not need the a.s.surances of Mr. Crawley to be aware that his inheritance would be handed back to him improved a thousand-fold.

He was astounded to find how easily John had arranged matters over which his father had grumbled and hesitated for years. Even the dispute with the Crown had been settled by Mr. Crawley without difficulty, now that Sir Timothy's obstinacy no longer stood in the way of a reasonable compromise.

John Crewys had faithfully carried out the instructions of the will; and there were many thousands yet left of the sum placed at his disposal for the improvements of the estate; a surplus which would presently be invested for Peter's benefit, and added to that carefully tied-up capital over which Sir Timothy had given his heir no discretionary powers.

Peter spent a couple of hours walking about with John, and took an intelligent interest in all that had been done, from the roof and chimney-pots of the house, to the new cider-mill and stable fittings; but though he was civil and amiable, he expressed no particular grat.i.tude nor admiration on his return to the hall, where his mother eagerly awaited him.

It consoled her to perceive that he was on excellent terms with his guardian, offering to accompany him in the dog-cart to Brawnton, whither John was bound, to catch the noon express to town.

"You will have him all to yourself after this," said John Crewys, smiling down upon Lady Mary during his brief farewell interview, which took place in the oriel window of the banqueting-hall, within sight, though not within hearing, of the two old sisters. "I am sorry to take him off to Brawnton, but I could hardly refuse his company."

"No, no; I am only glad you should take every opportunity of knowing him better," she said.

"And you will be happier without any divided feelings at stake," he said. "Give yourself up entirely to Peter for the next three or four months, without any remorse concerning me. For the present, at least, I shall be hard at work, with little enough time to spare for sentiment." There was a tender raillery in his tone, which she understood. "When I come back we will face the situation, according to circ.u.mstances. By-the-by, I suppose it is not to be thought of that Miss Sarah should prolong her Whitsuntide holidays much further?"

"She ought to have returned to town earlier, but Mrs. Hewel was ill,"

said Lady Mary. "She is a tiresome woman. She moved heaven and earth to get rid of poor Sarah, and, now the child has had a _succes_, she is always clamouring for her to come back."

"Ah!" said John, thoughtfully, "and you will moot to Peter the scheme for taking a house in town? But I should advise you to be guided by his wishes over that. Still, it would be very delightful to meet during our time of waiting; and that would be the only way. I won't come down here again until I can declare myself. It is a--false position, under the circ.u.mstances."