CHAPTER XIV
Peter stood on his own front door steps, on the shady side of thehouse, in the fresh air of the early morning. The unnecessary eyeglasstwinkled on his breast as he looked forth upon the goodliness andbeauty of his inheritance. The ever-encroaching green of summer hadnot yet overpowered the white wealth of flowering spring; for theseason was a late one, and the month of June still young.
The apple-trees were yet in blossom, and the snowy orchards werescattered over the hillsides between patches of golden gorse. Thelilacs, white and purple, were in flower, amid scarlet rhododendronsand branching pink and yellow tree-azaleas. The weeping barberryshowered gold dust upon the road.
On the lower side of the drive, the rolling grass slopes werethriftily left for hay; a flowering mass of daisies, and buttercups,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 bloombeside a granite monument which threw a long shadow over the greenturf mounds towards the west, and marked the grave of Sir TimothyCrewys.
Peter saw that monument more plainly just now than all the rest of hissurroundings, although he was short-sighted, and although his eyeswere further dimmed by sudden tears.
His memories of his father were not particularly tender ones, and hisgrief was only natural filial sentiment in its vaguest and lightestform. But such as it was--the sight of the empty study, which was tobe his own room in future; the strange granite monument shining inthe sun; the rush of home associations which the familiar landscapearoused--augmented it for the time being, and made the young man gladof a moment's solitude.
There was the drooping ash--which had made such a cool, refreshingtent in summer--where he had learnt his first lessons at his mother'sknee, and where he had kept his rabbit-hutch for a season, until hisfather had found it out, and despatched it to the stable-yard.
His punishments and the troubles of his childhood had always beenassociated with his father, and its pleasures and indulgences with hismother; but neither had made any very strong impression on Peter'smind, and it was of his father that he thought with most sympathy, andeven most affection. Partly, doubtless, because Sir Timothy was dead,and because Peter's memories were not vivid ones, any more than hisimagination was vivid; but also because his mind was preoccupied witha vague resentment against his mother.
He could not understand the change which was, nevertheless, soevident. Her new-born brightness and ease of manner, and her strangelyincreased loveliness, which had been yet more apparent on the previousevening, when she was dressed for dinner, than on his first arrival.
It was absurd, Peter thought, in all the arrogance of disdainfulyouth, that a woman of her age should have learnt to care for herappearance thus; or to wear becoming gowns, and arrange her hair likea fashion 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 inSarah.
The loveliness of his mother, refined and white and delicate as shewas, did not appeal to him; but Sarah, in her radiant youth, with herbrilliant 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 toremember that this stately beauty had ever been an impudent littleschoolgirl, with a turned-up nose and a red pigtail. In days gone by,Miss Sarah had actually fought and scratched the spoilt boy, who triedto tyrannize over his playmate as he tyrannized over his mother andhis aunts. On the other hand, the recollection of those early daysalso became precious to Peter for the first time.
Sarah!
It was difficult to be sentimental on the subject, but difficultiesare easily surmounted by a lover; and though Sarah's childhoodafforded few facilities for ecstatic reverie, still--there had beenmoments, and especially towards the end of the holidays, when he andSarah had walked on the banks of the river, with arms round eachother's necks, sharing each other's toffee and confidences.
Poor Sarah had been first despatched to a boarding school asunmanageable, at the age of seven, and thereafter her life had been achangeful one, since her father could not live without her, and hermother would not keep her at home. She had always presented a livelycontrast to her elder brothers, who were all that a parent's heartcould desire, and too old to be much interested in their littlerebellious sister.
Her high spirits survived disgrace and punishment and periodicalbanishment. Though not destitute of womanly qualities, she was moreremarkable for hoydenish ones; and her tastes were peculiar andvaried. If there were a pony to break in, a sick child to be nursed, agroom to scold, a pig to be killed--there was Sarah; but if a frock totry on, a visit to be paid, a note to be written--where was she?
Peter, recalling these things, tried to laugh at himself for hisextraordinary infatuation of the previous day; but he knew very wellin his heart that he could not really laugh, and that he had lainawake half the night thinking of her.
Sarah had spent the rest of the day at Barracombe after Peter'sreturn, and had been escorted home late in the evening. Could he everforget those moments on the terrace, when she had paced up and downbeside him, in the pleasant summer darkness; her white neck and armsgleaming through transparent black tulle; sometimes listening to thesounds of music and revelry in the village below, and looking at therockets that were being let off on the river-banks; and sometimesasking him of the war, in that low voice which thrilled Peter as ithad already thrilled not a few interested hearers before him?
Those moments had been all too few, because John Crewys also hadmonopolized a share of Miss Sarah's attention. Peter did not dislikehis guardian, whose composed courtesy and absolute freedom fromself-consciousness, or any form of affectation, made it difficultindeed not to like him. His remarks made Peter smile in spite ofhimself, though he could not keep the ball of conversation rollinglike Miss Sarah, who was not at all afraid of the great counsel, butmatched his pleasant wit, with a most engaging impudence all her own.
Lady Mary had stood clasping her son's arm, full of thankfulness forhis safe return; but she, too, had been unable to help laughing atJohn, who purposely exerted himself to amuse her and to keep her fromdwelling upon their parting on the morrow.
Her thoughtful son insisted that she must avoid exposure to the nightair, and poor Lady Mary had somewhat ruefully returned to the societyof the old ladies within; but John Crewys did not, as he might, and asPeter had supposed he would, join the other old folk. Peter classedhis mother and aunts together, quite calmly, in his thoughts. Helistened to Sarah's light talk with John, watching her like a man in adream, hardly able to speak himself; and it is needless to say that hefound her chatter far more interesting and amusing than anything Johncould say.
Who could have dreamt that little Sarah would grow up into thisbewitching maiden? There was a girl coming home on board ship, theyoung wife of an officer, whom every one had raved about and called sobeautiful. Peter almost laughed aloud as he contrasted Sarah with hisrecollections 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 faintdash of disapproval which somehow embittered his love.
He could not shake off the impression of her first appearance, comingsinging down the oak staircase, in her white gown. _His mother!_Dressed almost like a girl, and, worst of all, looking almost like agirl, so slight and white and delicate. Peter recollected that SirTimothy had been very particular about his wife's apparel. He liked itto be costly and dignified, and she had worn stiff silks and poplinsinappropriate to the country, but considered eminently suited to herposition by the Brawnton dressmaker. And her hair had been parted onher forehead, and smoo
thed over her little ears. Sir Timothy did notapprove of curling-irons and frippery.
Peter did not know that his mother had cried over her own appearanceoften, before she became indifferent; and if he had known, he wouldhave thought it only typical of the weakness and frivolity which hehad 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 theyregarded a little boy as blind and deaf to all that did not directlyconcern his lessons or his play. Thus Peter had grown up loving hismother, but disapproving of her, and the disapproval was sometimesmore 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 theadministration of his tiny kingdom. Though Peter was young andinexperienced, he could not be blind to the immense improvements made.
He had left a house and stables shabby and tumble-down and out ofrepair; rotting woodwork, worn-off paint, and missing tiles had beenpainfully 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 hadallowed no glaring newness to be visible; a hand that had matched oldtiles, and patched old walls, and planted creepers, and restored analmost magical order and comfort to Peter's beautiful old house.
Where Sir Timothy's grumbling tenants had walked to the nearest brookfor 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; deadtrees removed, and young ones planted, shrubberies trimmed, and viewslong obscured once more opened out.
Peter did not need the assurances of Mr. Crawley to be aware that hisinheritance would be handed back to him improved a thousand-fold.
He was astounded to find how easily John had arranged matters overwhich his father had grumbled and hesitated for years. Even thedispute with the Crown had been settled by Mr. Crawley withoutdifficulty, now that Sir Timothy's obstinacy no longer stood in theway 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 hisdisposal for the improvements of the estate; a surplus which wouldpresently be invested for Peter's benefit, and added to that carefullytied-up capital over which Sir Timothy had given his heir nodiscretionary powers.
Peter spent a couple of hours walking about with John, and took anintelligent interest in all that had been done, from the roof andchimney-pots of the house, to the new cider-mill and stable fittings;but though he was civil and amiable, he expressed no particulargratitude nor admiration on his return to the hall, where his mothereagerly awaited him.
It consoled her to perceive that he was on excellent terms with hisguardian, 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, whichtook place in the oriel window of the banqueting-hall, within sight,though not within hearing, of the two old sisters. "I am sorry to takehim off to Brawnton, but I could hardly refuse his company."
"No, no; I am only glad you should take every opportunity of knowinghim better," she said.
"And you will be happier without any divided feelings at stake," hesaid. "Give yourself up entirely to Peter for the next three or fourmonths, without any remorse concerning me. For the present, atleast, I shall be hard at work, with little enough time to sparefor sentiment." There was a tender raillery in his tone, which sheunderstood. "When I come back we will face the situation, according tocircumstances. By-the-by, I suppose it is not to be thought of thatMiss 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 earthto get rid of poor Sarah, and, now the child has had a _succes_, sheis always clamouring for her to come back."
"Ah!" said John, thoughtfully, "and you will moot to Peter the schemefor taking a house in town? But I should advise you to be guided byhis wishes over that. Still, it would be very delightful to meetduring our time of waiting; and that would be the only way. I won'tcome down here again until I can declare myself. It is a--falseposition, under the circumstances."
"I know; I understand," said Lady Mary; "but I am afraid Peter won'twant to stir from home. He is so glad to be back, poor boy, one canhardly blame him; and he shares his father's prejudices againstLondon."
"Does he, indeed?" said John, rather dryly. "Well, make the most ofyour summer with him. _You_ will get only too much London--in the nearfuture."
"Perhaps," Lady Mary said, smiling.
But, in spite of herself, John's confidence communicated itself toher.
When Peter and John had departed, Lady Mary went and sat alone in thequiet of the fountain garden, at the eastern end of the terrace. Thethick hedges and laurels which sheltered it had been duly thinned andtrimmed, to allow the entrance of the morning sunshine. Roses andlilies bloomed brightly round the fountain now, but it was stillrather a lonely and deserted spot, and silent, save for the sighing ofthe wind, and the tinkle of the dropping water in the stone basin.
A young copper beech, freed from its rankly increasing enemies ofbranching laurel and encroaching bramble, now spread its glory oftransparent ruddy leaf in the sunshine above trim hedges, here andthere diversified by the pale gold of a laburnum, or the violetclusters of a rhododendron in full flower. Rare ferns fringed theedges of the little fountain, where diminutive reptiles whisked inand out of watery homes, or sat motionless on the brink, with fixed,glassy eyes.
Lady Mary had come often to this quiet corner for rest and peace andsolitude in days gone by. She came often still, because she had afancy that the change in her favourite garden was typical of thechange in her life,--the letting-in of the sunshine, where beforethere had been only deepest shade; the pinks and forget-me-nots whichwere gaily blowing, where only moss and fungi had flourished; theblooming of the roses, where the undergrowth had crossed and recrossedwithered branches above bare, black soil.
She brought her happiness here, where she had brought her sorrow andher repinings long ago.
A happiness subdued by many memories, chastened by long anxiety,obscured by many doubts, but still happiness.
There was to be no more of that heart-breaking anxiety. Her boyhad been spared to come home to her; and John--John, who alwaysunderstood, had declared that, for the present, at least, Peter mustcome first.
The whole beautiful summer lay before her, in which she was to be freeto devote herself to her wounded hero. She must set herself to charmaway that shadow of discontent--of disapproval--that darkened Peter'sgrey eyes when they rested upon her; a shadow of which she had beenonly too conscious even before he went to South Africa.
She made a thousand excuses for him, after telling herself that heneeded none.
Poor boy! he had been brought up in such narrow ways, such anatmosphere of petty distrust and fault-finding and small aims. Evenhis bold venture into the world of men had not enabled him to shakeoff altogether the influence of his early training, though it hadchanged him so much for the better; it had not altogether curedPeter of his old ungraciousness, partly inherited, and partly due toexample.
But he had returned full of love and tenderness and penitence, thoughhis softening had been but momentary; and when she had brought himunder the changed influences which now dominated her own life, shecould not doubt that Peter's nature would expand.
He should see that home life need not necessarily be gloomy; thatall innocent pleasures and interests were to be encouraged, and notrepressed. If he wanted to spend the summer at home--and after hislong absence what could be more natural?--she would exert herselfto make that home as attr
active as possible. Why should they notentertain? John had said there was plenty of money. Peter should haveother young people about him. She remembered a scene, long ago, whenhe had brought a boy of his own age in to lunch without permission.She would have to let Peter understand how welcome she should makehis friends; he must have many more friends now. While she was yet_chatelaine_ of Barracombe, it would be delightful to imbue him withsome idea of the duties and pleasures of hospitality. Lady Mary's eyessparkled at the thought of providing entertainment for many youngsoldiers, wounded or otherwise. They should have the best ofeverything. She was rich, and Peter was rich, and there was no harm inmaking visitors welcome in that great house, and filling the rooms,that had been silent and empty so long, with the noise and laughter ofyoung people.
She would ask Peter about the horses to-morrow. John had purposelyrefrained from filling the stables which had been so carefullyrestored and fitted. There were very few horses. Only the cob forthe dog-cart, and a pair for the carriage, so old that the coachmandeclared it was tempting Providence to sit behind them. They werecalculated to have attained their twentieth year, and were driven at aslow jog-trot for a couple of hours every day, except Sundays, in thebarouche. James Coachman informed Lady Belstone and Miss Crewys thateither steed was liable to drop down dead at any moment, and that theycould not expect the best of horses to last for ever; but the oldladies would neither shorten nor abandon their afternoon drive, norconsent to the purchase of a new pair. They continued to behave asthough horses were immortal.
Sir Timothy's old black mare was turned out to graze, partly fromsentiment, and partly because she, too, was unfitted for any practicalpurposes; and Peter had outgrown his pony before he went away, thoughhe had ridden it to hounds many times, unknown to his father. LadyMary thought it would be a pleasure to see her boy well mounted andthe stables filled. John had said that the loss of his arm wouldcertainly not prevent Peter from riding. She found herself constantlyreferring to John, even in her plans for Peter's amusement.
Strong, calm, patient John--who was prepared to wait; and who wouldnot, as he said, snatch happiness at the expense of other people'sfeelings. How wise he had been to agree that, for the present, shemust devote herself only to Peter! She and Peter would be all in allto each other as Peter himself had suggested, and as she had oncedreamed her son would be to his mother; though, of course, it was notto be expected that a boy could understand everything, like John.
She must make great allowances; she must be patient of his inheritedprejudices; above all, she must make him happy.
Afterwards, perhaps, when Peter had learned to do without her--as hewould learn too surely in the course of nature--she would be freeto turn to John, and put her hand in his, and let him lead herwhithersoever he would.
Peter saw his guardian off at Brawnton, dutifully standing atattention on the platform until the train had departed, instead ofstarting home as John suggested.
When he came out of the station he stood still for a moment,contemplating the stout, brown cob and the slim groom, who was waitinganxiously to know whether Sir Peter would take the reins, or whetherhe was to have the honour of driving his master home.
"I think I'll walk back, George," said Peter, with a nonchalant air."Take the cob along quietly, and let her ladyship know directly youget in that I'm returning by Hewelscourt woods, and the ferry."
"Very good, Sir Peter," said the youth, zealously.
"It would be only civil to look in on the Hewels as Sarah is goingback to town so soon," said Peter to himself. "And it's rot drivingall those miles on the sunny side of the river, when it's barely threemiles from here to Hewelscourt and the ferry, and in the shade all theway. I shall be back almost as soon as the cart."
A little old lady, dressed in shabby black silk, looked up fromthe corner of the sofa next the window, when Peter entered thedrawing-room at Hewelscourt, after the usual delay, apologies, andbarking of dogs which attends the morning caller at the front door ofthe average country house.
Peter, who had expected to see Mrs. Hewel and Sarah, repented himselffor a moment that he had come at all when he beheld this stranger, whoregarded him with a pair of dark eyes that seemed several times toolarge for her small, wrinkled face, and who merely nodded her head inresponse to his awkward salutation.
"Ah!" said the old lady, rather as though she were talking to herself,"so this is the returned hero, no doubt. How do you do? The rejoicingover your home-coming kept me awake half the night."
Peter was rather offended at this free-and-easy method of address. Itseemed to him that, since the old lady evidently knew who he was, shemight be a little more respectful in her manner.
"The festivities were all over soon after eleven," he said stiffly."But perhaps you are accustomed to early hours?"
"Perhaps I am," said the old lady; she seemed more amused than abashedby Peter's dignity of demeanour. "At any rate, I like my beauty sleepto be undisturbed; more especially in the country, where there are somany noises to wake one up from four o'clock in the morning onwards."
"I have always understood," said Peter, who inherited his father'srespect for platitudes, "that the country was much quieter than thetown. I suppose you live in a town?"
"I suppose I do," said the old lady.
Peter put up his eyeglass indignantly, to quell this disrespectfulold woman with a frigid look, modelled upon the expression of hisboard-ship hero.
The door opened suddenly.
He dropped his eyeglass with a start. But it was only Mrs. Hewel whoentered, and not Sarah, after all.
Her _embonpoint_, and consequently her breathlessness, had muchincreased since Peter saw her last.
"Oh, Peter," she cried, "this is nice of you to come over and see usso soon. We were wondering if you would. Dear, dear, how thankful yourmother must be! I know what I was with the boys--and decorated andall--though poor Tom and Willie got nothing; but, as the papers said,it wasn't always those who deserved it most--still, I'm glad _you_ gotsomething, anyway; it's little enough, I'm sure, to make up for--"Then she turned nervously to the old lady. "Aunt Elizabeth, this isSir Peter Crewys, who came home last night."
"I have already made acquaintance with Sir Peter, since you left me toentertain him," said the old lady, nodding affably.
"Lady Tintern arrived unexpectedly by the afternoon train yesterday,"explained Mrs. Hewel, in her flustered manner, turning once more toPeter. "She has only been here twice before. It was such a surprise toSarah to find her here when she came back."
Peter grew very red. Who could have supposed that this shabby oldperson, whom he had endeavoured to snub, was the great Lady Tintern?
"She _didn't_ find me," said the old lady. "I was in bed long beforeSarah came back. I presume this young gentleman escorted her home?"
"I always send a servant across for Sarah whenever she stays at alllate at Barracombe, and always have," said Mrs. Hewel, in hurriedself-defence. "You must remember we are old friends; there never wasany formality about her visits to Barracombe."
"My guardian and I walked down to the ferry, and saw her across theriver, of course," said Peter, rather sulkily.
"But her maid was with her," cried Mrs. Hewel.
"Of course," Peter said again, in tones that were none too civil.
After all, who was Lady Tintern that she should call him to task? Andas if there could be any reason why her oldest playmate should not seeSarah home if he chose.
At the very bottom of Peter's heart lurked an inborn conviction thathis father's son was a very much more important personage than anyHewel, or relative of Hewel, could possibly be.
"That was very kind of you and your guardian," said the old lady,suddenly becoming gracious. "Emily, I will leave you to talk to your_old friend_. I dare say I shall see him again at luncheon?"
"I cannot stay to luncheon. My mother is expecting me," said Peter.
He would not express any thanks. What business had the presuming oldwoman to invite him to luncheon? It was not h
er house, after all.
"Oh, your mother is expecting you," said Lady Tintern, whose slightlyderisive manner of repeating Peter's words embarrassed and annoyed theyoung gentleman exceedingly. "I am glad you are such a dutiful son,Sir Peter."
She gathered together her letters and her black draperies, andtottered off to the door, which Peter, who was sadly negligent of _lespetits soins_ forgot to open for her; nor did he observe the indignantlook she favoured him with in consequence.
Sarah came into the drawing-room at last; fresh as the morning dew, inher summer muslin and fluttering, embroidered ribbons; with a bunch offorget-me-nots, blue as her eyes, nestling beneath her round, whitechin. Her bright hair was curled round her pretty ears and about herfair throat, but Peter did not compare this _coiffure_ to a fashionplate, though, indeed, it exactly resembled one. Neither did he castthe severely critical glance upon Sarah's _toilette_ that hehad bestowed upon the soft, grey gown, and the cluster of whitemoss-rosebuds which poor Lady Mary had ventured to wear that morning.
"How have you managed to offend Aunt Elizabeth, Peter?" cried Sarah,with her usual frankness. "She is in the worst of humours."
"Sarah!" said her mother, reprovingly.
"Well, but she _is_," said Sarah. "She called him a cub and a bear,and all sorts of things."
She looked at Peter and laughed, and he laughed back. The cloud ofsullenness had lifted from his brow as she appeared.
Mrs. Hewel overwhelmed him with unnecessary apologies. She could notgrasp the fact that her polite conversation was as dull and unmeaningto the young man as Sarah's indiscreet nothings were interesting anddelightful.
"I'm sure I don't mind," said Peter; and his tone was quite alert andcheerful. "She told me the country kept her awake. If she doesn't likeit, why does she come?"
"She has come to fetch me away," said Sarah. "And she cameunexpectedly, because she wanted to see for herself whether mamma wasreally ill, or whether she was only shamming."
"Sarah!"
"And she has decided she is only shamming," said Sarah. "Unluckily,mamma happened to be down in the stables, doctoring Venus. Youremember Venus, her pet spaniel?"
"Of course."
"Nothing else would have taken me off my sofa, where I ought to belying at this moment, as you know very well, Sarah," cried Mrs. Hewel,showing an inclination to shed tears.
"To be sure you ought," said Sarah; "but what is the use of tellingAunt Elizabeth that, when she saw you with her own eyes racing up anddown the stable-yard, with a piece of raw meat in your hand, and Venusgalloping after you."
"The vet said that if she took no exercise she would die," said Mrs.Hewel, tearfully, "and neither he nor Jones could get her to move. Noteven Ash, though he has known her all her life. I know it was very badfor me; but what could I do?"
"I wish I had been there," said Sarah, giggling; "but, however, AuntElizabeth described it all to me so graphically this morning that itis almost as good as though I had been."
"She should not have come down like that, without giving us a notion,"said Mrs. Hewel, resentfully.
"If she had only warned us, you could have been lying on a sofa, withthe blinds down, and I could have been holding your hand and shakinga medicine-bottle," said Sarah. "That is how she expected to find us,she said, from your letters."
"I am sure I scarcely refer to my weak health in my letters," saidMrs. Hewel, plaintively, "and it is natural I should like my onlydaughter to be with me now and then. Aunt Elizabeth has never had achild herself, and cannot understand the feelings of a mother."
Sarah and Peter exchanged a fleeting glance. She shrugged hershoulders slightly, and Peter looked at his boots. They understoodeach other perfectly.
Freshly to the recollection of both rose the lamentations of a littlered-haired girl, banished from the Eden of her beloved home, andcondemned to a cheap German school. Mrs. Hewel, in her palmiest days,had never found it necessary to race up and down the stable-yard toamuse Sarah; and when her only daughter developed scarlatina, shehad removed herself and her spaniels from home for months to escapeinfection.
"Here is papa," said Sarah, breaking the silence. "He was so vexed tobe out when you arrived yesterday. He heard nothing of it till he cameback."
Colonel Hewel walked in through the open window, with his dog at hisheels. He was delighted to welcome his young neighbour home. A short,sturdy man, with red whiskers, plentiful stiff hair, and bright, darkblue eyes. From her father Sarah had inherited her colouring, hershort nose, and her unfailing good spirits.
"I would have come over to welcome you," he said, shaking Peter's handcordially, "only when I came home there was all the upset of LadyTintern's arrival, and half a hundred things to be done to make hersufficiently comfortable. And then I would have come to fetch Sarahafter dinner, only I couldn't be sure she mightn't have started; andif I'd gone down by the road, ten to one she'd have come up by thepath through the woods. So I just sat down and smoked my pipe, andwaited for her to come back. You'll stay to lunch, eh, Peter?"
"I must get back to my mother, sir," said Peter. His respect forSarah's father, who had once commanded a cavalry regiment, hadincreased a thousand-fold since he last saw Colonel Hewel. "But won'tyou--I mean she'd be very glad--I wish you'd come over and dineto-night, all of you--as you could not come yesterday evening?"
Thus Peter delivered his first invitation, blushing with eagerness.
"I'm afraid we couldn't leave Lady Tintern--or persuade her to comewith us," said the colonel, shaking his head. Then he brightened up."But as soon as she and Sally have toddled back to town I see noreason why we shouldn't come, eh, Emily?" he said, turning to hiswife.
Peter looked rather blank, and a laugh trembled on Sarah's prettylips.
"You know I'm not strong enough to dine out, Tom," said his wife,peevishly. "I can't drive so far, and I'm terrified of the ferry atnight, with those slippery banks."
"Well, well, there's plenty of time before us. Later on you may getbetter; and I don't suppose you'll be running away again in a hurry,eh, Peter?" said the colonel. "I'm told you made a capital speechyesterday about sticking to your home, and living on your land, asyour father, poor fellow, did before you."
"I wish Sarah felt as you do, Peter," said Mrs. Hewel; "but, ofcourse, she has grown too grand for us, who live contentedly in thecountry all the year round. Her home is nothing to her now, it seems;and the only thing she thinks of is rushing back to London again asfast as she can."
Sarah, contrary to her wont, received this attack in silence; but shebestowed a fond squeeze on her father's arm, and cast an appealingglance at Peter, which caused the hero's heart to leap in his bosom.
"Of course I mean to live at Barracombe," said Peter, polishing hiseyeglass with reckless energy. "But I said nothing to the people aboutliving there all the year round. On the contrary, I think it moreprobable that I shall--run up to town myself, occasionally--just forthe season."
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