CHAPTER XV
On a perfect summer afternoon in mid-July, Lady Mary sat in theterrace garden at Barracombe, before the open windows of the silenthouse, in the shade of the great ilex; sometimes glancing at the bookshe held, and sometimes watching the haymakers in the valley, whosevoices and laughter reached her faintly across the distance.
Some boys were playing cricket in a field below. She noted idly thatthe sound of the ball on the bat travelled but slowly upward, andreached her after the striker had begun to run. The effect wascurious, but it was not new to her, though she listened and countedwith idle interest.
The old sisters had departed for their daily drive, which she dailydeclined to share, having no love for the high-road, and much for thepeace which their absence brought her.
It was an afternoon which made mere existence a delight amid suchsurroundings.
Long shadows were falling across the bend of the river, below thewooded hill which faced the south-west; whilst the cob-built,whitewashed cottages, and the brown, square-towered church lay full insunshine still. The red cattle stood knee-deep in the shallows, and anold boat was moored high and dry upon the sloping red banks.
The air was sweet with a thousand mingled scents of summer flowers:carnations, stocks, roses, and jasmine. The creamy clusters ofPerpetual Felicity rioted over the corner turret of the terrace, wherea crumbling stair led to the top of a small, half-ruined observatory,which tradition called the look-out tower.
Flights of steps led downwards from the garden, where the bedded-outplants blazed in all their glory of ordered colour, to the walks onthe lower levels. Here were long herbaceous borders, backed by themighty sloping walls of old red sandstone, which, like an ancientfortification, supported the terrace above.
The blue larkspur flourished beside scarlet gladioli, feather-headedspirea, and hardy fuchsia. There were no straight lines, nor any orderof planting. The Madonna lilies stood in groups, lifting up on thin,ragged stems their pure and spotless clusters, and overpowering withtheir heavy scent the fainter fragrance of the mignonette. Tall, greenhollyhocks towered higher yet, holding the secret of their loveliness,until these should wither; when they too would burst into blossom, andforestall the round-budded dahlia.
In the silence, many usually unheeded sounds made themselves veryplainly heard.
The tapping of the great magnolia-leaves upon the windows of the southfront; the rustling of the ilex; the ceaseless murmur of the river;the near twittering or distant song of innumerable birds; the steadyhum of the saw-mill below; the call of the poultry-woman at thehome-farm, and the shrieking response of a feathered horde flying andfighting for their food--sounds all so familiar as to pass unnoticed,save in the absence of companionship.
As Lady Mary mused alone, she could not but recall other summerafternoons, when she had not felt less lonely because her husband'svoice might at any moment break the silence, and summon her to hisside. Days when Peter had been absent at school, instead of, as now,at play; and when the old ladies had also been absent, taking theirregular and daily drive in the big barouche.
Then she had prized and coveted the solitude of a summer afternoon onthe lawn, and had stolen away to read and dream undisturbed in theshadow of the ilex.
It was now, when no vexatious restraint was exercised over her--whenthere was no one to reprove her for dreaming, or to criticize orforbid her chosen book--that solitude had become distasteful to her.She was restless and dissatisfied, and the misty sunlit landscape hadlost its charm, and her book its power of enchaining her attention.
She had tasted the joy of real companionship; the charm of realsympathy; of the fearless exchange of ideas with one whose outlookupon life was as broad and charitable as Sir Timothy's had been narrowand prejudiced.
She had scarcely dared to acknowledge to herself how dear John Crewyshad become to her, even though she knew that she rested thankfullyupon the certainty of his love; that she trusted him in all things;that she was in utter sympathy with all his thoughts and words andways.
Yet she had wished him to go, that she might be free to devote herselfto her boy--to be very sure that she was not a light and carelessmother, ready to abandon her son at the first call of a stranger.
And John Crewys had understood as another might not have understood.His clear head and great heart had divined her feelings, thoughperhaps he would never quite know how passionately grateful she wasbecause he had divined them; because he had in no way fallen short ofthe man he had seemed to be.
She had sacrificed John to Peter; and John, who had shown so muchwisdom and delicacy in leaving her alone with her son, was avenged;for only his absence could have made clear to her how he had growninto the heart she had guarded so jealously for Peter's sake.
She knew now that Peter's companionship made her more lonely thanutter solitude.
The _joie de vivre_, which had distinguished her early days, and wasinherent in her nature, had been quenched, to all appearance, manyyears since; but the spark had never died, and John had fanned it intobrightness once more.
His strong hand had swept away the cobwebs that had been spun acrossher life; and the drooping soul had revived in the sunshine of hislove, his comradeship, his warm approval.
Timidly, she had learnt to live, to laugh, to look about her, and dareutter her own thoughts and opinions, instead of falsely echoing thoseshe did not share. Lady Mary had recovered her individuality; theserene consciousness of a power within herself to live up to the idealher lover had conceived of her.
But now, in his absence, that confidence had been rudely shaken. Shehad come to perceive that she, who charmed others so easily, couldnot charm her sullen son. It was part of the penalty she paid for herquick-wittedness, that she could realize herself as Peter saw her,though she was unable to present herself before him in a morefavourable light.
"I must be myself--or nobody," she thought despairingly. But Peterwanted her to be once more the meek, plainly dressed, low-spirited,silent being whom Sir Timothy had created; and who was not in theleast like the original laughing, loving, joyous Mary Setoun.
It did not occur to her, in her sorrowful humility, that possibly herqualities stood on a higher level than Peter's powers of appreciation.Yet it is certain that people can only admire intelligently whatis good within their comprehension; and their highest flights ofimagination may sometimes scarcely touch mediocrity.
The noblest ideals, the fairest dreams, the subtlest reasoning, thefinest ethics, contained in the writings of the mighty dead, meantnothing at all to Sir Timothy. His widow knew that she had never heardhim utter one high or noble or selfless thought. But with, perhaps,pardonable egotism, she had taken it for granted that Peter must bedifferent. Whatever his outward humours, he was _her_ son; rather apart of herself, in her loving fancy, than a separate individual.
The moment of awakening had been long in coming to Lady Mary; themoment when a mother has to find out that her personality is notnecessarily reproduced in her child; that the being who was once theunconscious consoler of her griefs and troubles may develop a natureperfectly antagonistic to her own.
She had kept her eyes shut with all her might for a long time, butnecessity was forcing them open.
Perhaps her association with John Crewys made it easier to see Peteras he was, and not as she had wished him to be.
And yet, she thought miserably to herself, he had certainly tried hardto be affectionate and kind to her--and probably it did not occur tohim, as it did to his mother, how pathetic it was that he should haveto try.
Peter did not think much about it.
Sometimes, during his short stay at Barracombe, he had walked througha game of croquet with his mother--it was good practice for his lefthand--or he listened disapprovingly to something she inadvertently(forgetting he was not John) read aloud for his sympathy oradmiration; or he took a short stroll with her; or bestowed hiscompany upon her in some other dutiful fashion. But these filialattentions over, if he yawned with relief--why, he n
ever did so in herpresence, and would have been unable to understand that Lady Mary sawhim yawning, in her mind's eye, as plainly as though he had indulgedthis bad habit under her very nose. He bestowed a portion of histime on his aunts in much the same spirit, taking less trouble to beaffectionate, because they were less exacting, as he would have put itto himself, than she was.
The scheme of renting a house in London had duly been laid before him,and rejected most decisively by the young gentleman. His father hadnever taken a house in town, and he could see no necessity for it. Hisaunts were lost in admiration for their nephew's firmness. Peter hadinherited somewhat of his father's dictatorial manner, and theirflattery did not tend to soften it. When his aged relativesmispronounced the magic word _kopje_, or betrayed their belief that a_donga_ was an inaccessible mountain--he brought the big guns of hisheavy satire to bear on the little target of their ignorance withoutremorse. He mistook a loud voice, and a habit of laying down the law,for manly decision, and the gift of leadership; and imagined that intalking down his mother's gentle protests he had convinced her of hissuperior wisdom.
When he had made it sufficiently clear, however, that he did not wishLady Mary to accompany him to town, young Sir Peter made haste todepart thither himself, on the very reasonable plea that he required anew outfit of clothes.
Was it possible that his departure brought a dreadful relief to themother who had prayed day and night, for eight-and-twenty months, thather son might return to her?
She tried and tried, on her knees in her own room, to realize what herfeelings would have been if Peter had been killed in South Africa.She tried to recall the first ecstasy of joy at his home-coming. Sheremembered, as she might have remembered a dream, the hours of agonyshe had passed, looking out over these very blue hills, and dumblybeseeching God to spare her boy--her only son--out of all the mothers'sons who were laying down their lives for England.
A terrible thought assailed her now and then, like an ugly spectrethat would not be laid--that if Peter had died of his wound--if he hadfallen as so many of his comrades had fallen, in the war--he wouldhave been a hero for all time; a glorious memory, safely enshrined andenthroned above all these miserable petty doubts and disappointments.She cast the thought from her in horror and piteous grief, andreiterated always her passionate gratitude for his preservation. But,nevertheless, the living, breathing Peter was a daily and hourlydisappointment to the mother who loved him. His ways were not herways, nor his thoughts her thoughts; and often she felt that she couldhave found more to say to a complete stranger, and that a strangerwould have understood her better.
The old ladies, returning from their drive, generally took a littleturn upon the terrace. This constituted half their daily exercise,since their morning walk consisted of a stroll round the kitchengarden.
"It prevents cramp after sitting so long," one would say to the other.
"And it is only right to show the gardener that we take an interest,"the other would reply.
The gardener translated the interest they took into a habit offault-finding, which nearly drove him mad.
"It du spile the vine weather vor I," he would frequently grumbleto his greatest crony, James Coachman, who, for his part, bitterlyresented the abnormal length of the daily drives. "Zure as vate, whenI zits down tu my tea, cumes a message from one are t'other on 'em,an' oop I goes. 'Yu bain't been lukin' round zo careful as 'ee shude;there be a bit o' magnolia as want nailding oop, my gude man.' 'Oh,be there, mum?' zays I. 'Yiss, there be; an' thart I'd carl yureattention tu it,' zess she, are zum zuch. 'Thanky, mum, I'm zure,'zezz I."
"I knows how her goes on," groaned James Coachman.
"Mother toime 'tis zummat else," said the aggrieved gardener. "'Thic'ere geranum's broke, Willum; but ef yu tuke it vor cuttings, zovast's iver yu cude, 'twon't take no yarm, Willum. Yu zee as how us dutake a turble interest.' Ah! 'tis arl I can du tu putt oop wi' 'un;carling a man from's tea, tu tark zuch vamous vule's tark."
Lady Mary was not much less weary than the gardener and coachman ofthe old sisters' habits of criticism. But only the shadow of theirformer power of vexing her remained, now that they could no longerappeal to Sir Timothy to join them in reproving his wife. She wasno more to be teased or exasperated into alternate submission andrebellion.
Their cousin John, the administrator of Barracombe, had chosen fromthe first to place her opinions and wishes above all their protests oradvice. They said to each other that John, before he grew tired of herand went away, had spoilt poor dear Mary completely; but their hopeswere centred on Peter, who was a true Crewys, and who would soonbe his own master, and the master of Barracombe; when he would,doubtless, revert to his father's old ways.
They chose to blame his mother for his sudden departure to London, andremarked that the changes in his home had so wrought upon the poorfellow, that he could not bear to look at them until he had the powerof putting them right again.
A deeply resented innovation was the appearance of the tea-table onthe lawn before the windows, in the shade of the ilex-grove, whichsheltered the western end of the terrace from the low rays of the sun.
During the previous summer, on their return from a drive, they hadfound their cousin John in his white flannels, and Lady Mary in herblack gown, serenely enjoying this refreshment out-of-doors; and thepoor old ladies had hardly known how to express their surprise andannoyance.
In vain did their sister-in-law explain that she had desired a secondtea to be served in the hall, in their usual corner by the logfireplace.
It had never been the custom in the family. What would Ash say? Whatwould he think? How could so much extra trouble be given to theservants?
"The servants have next to nothing to do," Lady Mary had said; andyoung John had actually laughed, and explained that he had had aconversation with Ash which had almost petrified that tyrant of thehousehold.
Either Ash would behave himself properly, and carry out orders withoutgrumbling, or he would be superseded. _Ash_ superseded!
This John had said with quite unruffled good humour, and with a smileon his face, as though such an upheaval of domestic politics were thesimplest thing in the world. Though for years the insolence and theidleness of Ash had been favourite grievances with Lady Belstone andMiss Crewys, they were speechlessly indignant with young John.
Habit had partially inured, though it could never reconcile them, tothe appearance of that little rustic table and white cloth in LadyMary's favourite corner of the terrace; and though they would ratherhave gone without their tea altogether than partake of it there,they could behold her pouring it out for herself with comparativeequanimity.
"I trust you are rested, dear Mary, after your terrible long climb inthe woods this morning?"
"It has been very restful sitting here. I hope you had a pleasantdrive, Isabella?" "No; it was too hot to be pleasant. We passedthe rectory, and there was that idle doctor lolling in the canon'sverandah--keeping the poor man from his haymaking. Has the second postcome in? Any news of dear Peter?"
"None at all. You know he is not much of a correspondent, and his lastletter said he would be back in a few days."
"For my part," said Lady Belstone, "I think Peter will come home theday he attains his majority, and not a moment before."
"He is hardly likely to stay in London through August and September,"said Lady Mary, in rather displeased tones.
"Perhaps not in London; but there are other places besides London,"said Miss Crewys, significantly. "We met Mrs. Hewel driving. _She_,poor thing, does not expect to see Sarah before Christmas, if then,from what she told us."
"She should not have let Lady Tintern adopt Sarah if she is to be forever regretting it. It was her own doing," said Lady Mary.
"That is just what I told her," said Lady Belstone, triumphantly."Though how she can be regretting such a daughter I cannotconjecture."
"Sarah is a saucy creature," said Miss Crewys. "The last time I sawher she made one of her senseless jokes at me."
"
She has no tact," said Lady Belstone, shaking her head; "for whenPeter saw you were annoyed, and tried to pass it off by telling herthe Crewys family had no sense of humour, instead of saying, 'Whatnonsense!' she said, 'What a pity!'"
"Her mother was full of a letter from Lady Tintern about some grandlord or other, who wanted to marry Sarah. I did my best to make herunderstand how very unlikely it was that any man, noble or otherwise,would care to marry a girl with carroty hair."
"I doubt if you succeeded in convincing her, Georgina, though youspoke pretty plain, and I am very far from blaming you for it. But sheis ate up with pride, poor thing, because Sarah gets noticed byLady Tintern's friends, who would naturally wish to gratify her byflattering her niece."
"I am afraid the girl is setting her cap at Peter," said Miss Crewys;"but I took care to let her mother know, casually, what our familywould think of such a marriage for him."
"Peter is a boy," said Lady Mary, quickly; "and Sarah, for allpractical purposes, is ten years older than he. She is only amusingherself. Lady Tintern is much more ambitious for her than I am forPeter."
"How you talk, Mary!" said Miss Crewys, indignantly. "She is hardlytwenty years of age, and the most designing monkey that ever lived.And Peter is a fine young man. A boy, indeed! I hope if she succeedsin catching him that you will remember I warned you."
"I will remember, if anything so fortunate should occur," said LadyMary, with a faint smile. "I cannot think of any girl in the worldwhom I would prefer to Sarah as a daughter."
"I, for one, should walk out of this house the day that girl enteredit as mistress, let Peter say what he would to prevent me," said LadyBelstone, reddening with indignation.
"I wonder where you would go to?" said Lady Mary, with some curiosity."Of course," she added, hastily, "there is the Dower House."
"I am sure it is very generous of you to suggest the Dower House, dearMary," said Miss Crewys, softening, "since our poor brother, in hisunaccountable will, left it entirely to you, and made no mention ofhis elder sisters; though we do not complain."
"It is in accordance with custom that the widow should have the DowerHouse. A widow's rights should be respected; but I thought our nameswould be mentioned," said Lady Belstone, dejectedly.
"Of course he knew," said Lady Mary, in a low voice, "that Peter'shouse would be always open to us all, as my boy said himself."
"Dear boy! he has said it to us too," said the sisters, in a breath.
"I don't say that, in my opinion," said Lady Mary, "it would not bewiser to leave a young married couple to themselves; I have alwaysthought so. But Peter would not hear of your turning out of your oldhome; you know that very well."
"Peter would not; but nothing would induce _me_ to live under thesame roof as that red-haired minx," said Lady Belstone, firmly. "Andbesides, as you say, my dear Mary, you could not very well live byyourself at the Dower House."
"Since Mary has been so kind as to mention it, there would be manyadvantages in our accompanying her there, in case Sarah should succeedin her artful aims," said Miss Crewys. "It would be near Peter, andyet not _too_ near, and we could keep an eye on _her_."
"If she does not succeed, somebody else will," said Lady Belstone,sensibly; "and, at least, we know her faults, and can put Peter on hisguard against them."
A host of petty and wretched recollections poured into Lady Mary'smind as she listened to these words.
Poor Timothy; poor little hunted, scolded, despairing bride; poormarried life--of futile reproaches and foolish quarrelling.
How many small miseries she owed to those ferret searching eyes, andthose subtly poisonous tongues! But such miseries lurked in the dullshadows of the past. Standing now in the bright sunshine of thepresent, she forgave the sisters with all her heart, and thoughtcompassionately of their great age, their increasing infirmities,their feeble hold on life.
Not to them did she owe real sorrow, after all; for nothing that doesnot touch the heart can reach the fountain of grief.
Peter's hand--the hand she loved best in the world--had set the watersof sorrow flowing not once, but many times; but she had become awarelately of a stronger power than Peter's guarding the spring.
She looked from one sister to the other.
Despite the narrowness of brow, and sharpness of eye and feature,they were both venerable of aspect, as they tottered up and down theterrace where they had played in their childhood and sauntered throughyouth and middle age to these latter days, when they leant uponsilver-headed sticks, and wore dignified silk attire and respectablepoke-bonnets.
"Don't you think it would be better," said Lady Mary, slowly, "if youleft Peter to find out his wife's faults for himself; whether she beSarah--or another?"
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