Peter's Mother

by Mrs. Henry De La Pasture

  CHAPTER XVII

  There was a tap at the door of Lady Mary's bedroom, and Peter's voicesounded without.

  "Mother, could I speak to you for a moment?"

  "Come in," said Lady Mary's soft voice; and Peter entered and closedthe door, and crossed to the oriel window, where she was sitting ather writing-table, before a pile of notes and account books.

  Long ago, in Peter's childhood, she had learned to make this bedroomher refuge, where she could read or write or dream, in silence; awayfrom the two old ladies, who seemed to pervade all the living-rooms atBarracombe. Peter had been accustomed all his life to seek his motherhere.

  She had chosen the room at her marriage, and had had an old-fashionedpaper of bunched rosebuds put up there. It was very long and low, andlooked eastward into the fountain garden, and over the tree-tops faraway to the open country.

  The sisters had thought one of the handsome modern rooms of the southfront would be more suitable for the bride, but Lady Mary had her way.She preferred the older part of the house, and liked the stepsdown into her room, the uneven floor, the low ceiling, the quaintwindow-seats, and the powdering closet where she hung her dresses.

  The great oriel window formed almost a sitting-room apart. Here washer writing-table, whereon stood now a green jar of scented arums andtrailing white fuchsias.

  A bunch of sweet peas in a corner of the window-seat perfumed thewhole room, already fragrant with potpourri and lavender.

  A low bookcase was filled with her favourite volumes; one shelf withthe story-books of her childhood, from which she had long ago readaloud to Peter, on rainy days when he had exhausted all other kindsof amusement; for he had never touched a book if he could help it,therein resembling his father.

  In the corner next the window stood the cot where Peter had sleptoften as a little boy, and which had been playfully designated thehospital, because his mother had always carried him thither whenhe was ill. Then she had taken him jealously from the care of hisattendant, and had nursed and guarded him herself day and night, untileven convalescence was a thing of the past. She had never sufferedthat little cot to be moved; the white coverlet had been made andembroidered by her own hands. A gaudy oleograph of a soldier onhorseback--which little Peter had been fond of, and which had beenhung up to amuse him during one of those childish illnesses--remainedin its place. How often had she looked at it through her tears whenPeter was far away! Beside the cot stood a table with a shabby bookof devotions, marked by a ribbon from which the colour had long sincefaded. The book had belonged to Lady Mary's father, young RobbieSetoun, who had become Lord Ferries but one short month before he metwith a soldier's death. His daughter said her prayers at this littletable, and had carried thither her agony and petitions for her boy inhis peril, during the many, many months of the South African War.

  The morning was brilliant and sunny, and the upper casements stoodopen, to let in the fresh autumn air, and the song of the robinbalancing on a swaying twig of the ivy climbing the old walls. Whiteclouds were blowing brightly across a clear, blue sky.

  Lady Mary stretched out her hand and pulled a cord, which drew a rosycurtain half across the window, and shaded the corner where she wassitting. She looked anxiously and tenderly into Peter's face; herquick instinct gathered that something had shaken him from hisordinary mood of criticism or indifference.

  "Are you come to have a little talk with me, my darling?" she said.

  She was afraid to offer the caress she longed to bestow. She movedfrom her stiff elbow-chair to the soft cushions in her favouritecorner of the window-seat, and held out a timid hand. Peter claspedit in his own, threw himself on a stool at her feet, and rested hisforehead against her knee.

  "I have something to tell you, mother, and I am afraid that, when Ihave told you, you will be disappointed in me; that you will think meinconsistent."

  Her heart beat faster. "Which of us is consistent in this world, mydarling? We all change with circumstances. We are often obliged tochange, even against our wills. Tell me, Peter; I shall understand."

  "There's not really anything to tell," said Peter, nervouslycontradicting himself, "because nothing is exactly settled yet. But Ithink something might be--before very long, if you would help me tosmooth away some of the principal difficulties."

  "Yes, yes," said Lady Mary, venturing to stroke the closely croppedblack head resting against her lap.

  "You know--Sarah--has been teaching me the new kind of croquet, atHewelscourt, since we came back from Scotland?" he said. "I don't geton so badly, considering."

  "My poor boy!"

  "Oh, I was always rather inclined to be left-handed; it comes inusefully now," said Peter, who generally hurried over any reference tohis misfortune. "Well, this morning, whilst we were playing, I askedSarah, for the third time, to--to marry me. The third's the luckytime, isn't it?" he said, with a tremulous laugh, "and--and--"

  "She said yes!" cried Lady Mary, clasping her hands.

  "She didn't go so far as that," said Peter, rather reproachfully. Hisvoice shook slightly. "But she didn't say no. It's the first time shehasn't said no."

  "What did she say?" said Lady Mary.

  She tried to keep her feelings of indignation and offence againstSarah out of her voice. After all, who was Sarah that she shouldpresume to refuse Peter? Or for the matter of that, to accept him?Either course seems equally unpardonable at times to motherlyjealousy, and Lady Mary was half vexed and half amused to find herselfnot exempt from this weakness.

  "Impudent little red-headed thing!" she said to herself, though sheloved Sarah dearly, and admired her red hair with all her heart.

  "She told me a few of the reasons why she--she didn't want to marryme," said Peter.

  Lady Mary's dismay was rather too apparent. "Surely that doesn't soundvery hopeful."

  Peter moved impatiently. "Oh, mother, it is always so difficult tomake you understand."

  "Is it, indeed?" she said, with a faint, pained smile. "I do my best,my darling."

  "Never mind; I suppose women are always rather slow of comprehension,"said the young lord of creation--"that is, except Sarah. _She_ alwaysunderstands. God bless her!"

  "God bless her, indeed!" said Lady Mary, gently, and the tears startedto her blue eyes, "if she is going to marry my boy."

  Peter repented his crossness. "Forgive me, mother. I know you mean tobe kind," he said. "You will help me, won't you?"

  "With all my heart," she said, anxiously; "only tell me how."

  "You see, I can't help feeling," said Peter, bashfully, "that shewouldn't have told me why she _couldn't_ marry me, if she hadn'tthought she might bring herself to do it in the end, if I got over thedifficulties she mentioned. I've been--hopeful, ever since she refusedthat ass of an Avonwick, in spite of Lady Tintern. It wants somecourage to defy Lady Tintern, I can tell you, though she's such alittle object to look at. By George! I'd almost rather walk up to aloaded gun than face that woman's tongue. Of course, even if _my_share of the difficulties were removed, there'd still be Lady Tinternagainst us. But if Sarah can defy Lady Tintern in one thing, she mightin another. She's afraid of nobody."

  "Sarah certainly does not lack courage," said Lady Mary, smiling.

  "I never saw anybody like her," said Peter, whose love possessed him,mind, body, and soul. "Why, I've heard her keep a whole roomful ofpeople laughing, and every one of them as dull as ditch-water till shecame in. And to see her hold her own against men at games--she's morestrength in one of her pretty, white wrists," said Peter, looking withan air of disparagement at his mother's slender, delicate hand, "thanyou have in your whole body, I do believe."

  "She is splendidly strong," said Lady Mary; "the very personificationof youth and health." She sighed softly.

  "And beauty," said Peter, excitedly. "Don't leave that out. And a goodsort, through and through, as even _you_ must allow, mother."

  He spoke as though he suspected her of begrudging his praise of Sarah,and she made haste to reply:

&n
bsp; "Indeed, she is a good sort, dear little Sarah."

  "She is very fond of you," Peter said, in a choking voice. It seemedto him, in his infatuation, so touching that Sarah should be fond ofany one. "She was dreadfully afraid of hurting your feelings; but yet,as she said, she was bound to be frank with me."

  "Oh, Peter, do tell me what you mean. You are keeping me on thorns,"said Lady Mary.

  She grew red and white by turns. Was John's happiness in sightalready, as well as Peter's?

  "It's--it's most awfully hard to tell you," said Peter.

  He rose, and leant his elbow against the stone mullion nearest her,looking down anxiously upon her as he spoke.

  "After all I said to you when we first came home, it's awfully hard.But if you would only understand, you could make it all easy enough."

  "I will--I do understand."

  But Peter could not make up his mind even now to be explicit.

  "You see," he said, "Sarah is--not like other girls."

  "Of course not," said his mother.

  She controlled her impatience, reminding herself that Peter was veryyoung, and that he had never been in love before.

  "She's a kind of--of queen," said Peter, dreamily. "I only wish youcould have seen what it was in London."

  "I can imagine it," said Lady Mary.

  "No, you couldn't. I hadn't an idea what she would be there, untilI went to London and saw for myself," said Peter, who measuredeverybody's imagination by his own.

  "You see," he explained "my position here, which seems so important toyou and the other people round here, and _used_ to seem so importantto me--is--just nothing at all compared to what has been cast at herfeet, as it were, over and over again, for her to pick up if shechose. And this house," said Peter, glancing round and shaking hishead--"this house, which seems so beautiful to you now it's all doneup, if you'd only _seen_ the houses _she's_ accustomed to staying at.Tintern Castle, for instance--"

  "I was born in a greater house than Tintern Castle, Peter," said LadyMary, gently.

  "Oh, of course. I'm saying nothing against Ferries," said Peter,impatiently. "But you only lived there as a child. A child doesn'tnotice."

  "Some children don't," said Lady Mary, with that faint, wonderingsmile which hid her pain from Peter, and would have revealed it soclearly to John.

  "It isn't that Sarah _minds_ this old house," said Peter; "she wassaying what a pretty room she could make of the drawing-room only theother day."

  Lady Mary felt an odd pang at her heart. She thought of the troubleJohn had taken to choose the best of the water-colours for therose-tinted room--the room he had declared so bright and socharming--of the pretty curtains and chintzes; and the valuable oldchina she had collected from every part of the house for the cabinets.

  "You see, she's got that sort of thing at her fingers' ends, LadyTintern being such a connoisseur," said the unconscious Peter. "Butshe's so afraid of hurting your feelings--"

  "Why should she be?" said Lady Mary, coldly, in spite of herself. "Ifshe does not like the drawing-room, she can easily alter it."

  "That's what I say," said Peter, with a touch of his father'spomposity. "Surely a bride has a right to look forward to arrangingher home as she chooses. And Sarah is mad about old Frenchfurniture--Louis Seize, I think it is--but I know nothing about suchthings. I think a man should leave the choice of furniture, and allthat, to his wife--especially when her taste happens to be as good asSarah's."

  "I--I think so too, Peter," said Lady Mary.

  Her thoughts wandered momentarily into the past; but his eager tonesrecalled her attention.

  "Then you won't mind, so far?" said Peter, anxiously.

  "I--why should I mind?" said Lady Mary, starting. "I believe--Ihave read--that old French furniture is all the rage now." Then shebethought herself, and uttered a faint laugh. "But I'm afraid youraunts might make it a little uncomfortable for her, if she--tried toalter anything. I--go my own way now, and don't mind--but a youngbride--does not always like to be found fault with. She might findthat relations-in-law are sometimes--a little trying." Lady Mary felt,as she spoke these words, that she was somehow opening a way forherself as well as for Peter. She wondered, with a beating heart,whether the moment had come in which she ought to tell him--

  "That's just it," said Peter's voice, breaking in on her thoughts."That's just what Sarah means, and what I was trying to lead up to;only I'm no diplomatist. But that's one of the greatest objections shehas to marrying me, quite apart from disappointing her aunt. I can'tblame Lady Tintern," said Peter, with a new and strange humility, "fornot thinking me good enough for Sarah; and _that's_ not a difficulty_I_ can ever hope to remove. Sarah is the one to decide that point.But about relations-in-law--it's what I've been trying to tell you allthis time." He cleared his throat, which had grown dry and husky."She says that when she marries she--she intends to have her house toherself."

  There was a pause.

  "I see," said Lady Mary.

  She was silent; not, as Peter thought, with mortification; but becauseshe could not make up her mind what words to choose, in which to tellhim that it was freedom and happiness he was thus offering her withboth hands; and not, as he thought, loneliness and disappointment.

  Twice she essayed to speak, and failed through sheer embarrassment.The second time Peter lifted her hand to his lips. She felt throughall her consciousness the shy remorse which prompted that rare caress.

  "The--the Dower House," faltered Peter, "is only a few yards away."

  A sudden desire to laugh aloud seized Lady Mary. His former wordsreturned upon her memory.

  "It's--it's rather damp, isn't it?" she said, in a shaking voice.

  He looked into her face, and did not understand the brightness of thesmile that was shining through her tears.

  "But it's very picturesque," said Peter, "and--and roomy. You andmy aunts would be quite snug there; and it could be very prettilydecorated, Sarah says."

  "Perhaps Sarah would advise us on the subject?" said Lady Mary, unableto resist this thrust.

  "I'm sure she'd be delighted," said Peter, simply.

  Lady Mary fell back on her cushions and laughed helplessly, almosthysterically.

  "I don't see why you should laugh," said Peter, in a rather sore tone."I don't know how it is, but I never _can_ understand you, mother."

  "I see you can't. Never mind, Peter," said Lady Mary. She sat up, andlifted her pretty hands to smooth the soft waves of her brown hair."So I'm to settle down happily in my Dower House, and take your auntsto live with me?"

  "Why, you see," said Peter, "we couldn't very well let the poor oldthings wander away alone into the world, could we?"

  "I think," said Lady Mary, slowly, "that they can take care ofthemselves. And it is just possible that they may have foreseen--yourchange of intentions."

  "Women can never take care of themselves," said Peter. "And how canthey have foreseen? I had no idea myself of _this_ happening. But theywould be perfectly happy in the Dower House; it is close by, and Icould see them very often. It wouldn't be like leaving Barracombe."

  "Yes, I think they could be happy there," said Lady Mary. She feltthat the moment had come at last. Her heart beat thickly, and hercolour came and went. "But if _they_ were happily settled at the DowerHouse," she said slowly, for her agitation was making her breathless,and she did not want Peter to notice it,"--I would willingly give itup to them altogether. It could not matter whether _I_ were thereor not. Though they are old, they are perfectly able to look afterthemselves--and other people; and if they were not, they would notlike _me_ to take care of them. They have their own servants andMrs. Ash. And they have never liked me, Peter, though we have livedtogether so many years."

  "That is nonsense," said Peter, very calmly; "and if _they_ don't wantyou there, mother, _I_ do. Of course you must live at the Dower House;my father left it to you. And I shall want you more than ever now."

  "I don't see how," said Lady Mary.

  "Why, _we_--
Sarah and I," said Peter, lingering fondly over the wordswhich linked that beloved name with his own, "if we ever--if _it_ evercame off--we shall naturally be away from home a good deal. I couldn'task Sarah to tie herself down to this dull old place, could I?"

  "I suppose not," said Lady Mary.

  "She's accustomed to going about the world a good deal," said Peter.

  "No doubt."

  "Even _I_," said Peter, turning a flushed face towards his mother--"Iam too young, as Sarah says--and I feel it myself since I have seensomething of the life she lives--to become a complete fixture, like myfather was. It's--it's, as Sarah says--it's narrowing. I can see theeffects of it upon you all," said Peter, calmly, "when I come backhere."

  He could not fathom the wistfulness which clouded the blue eyes shelifted to his face.

  "It is very narrowing," she said humbly.

  "One may devote one's self to one's duties as a landed proprietor,"said Peter, with another recurrence of pomposity, "and yet seesomething of one's fellow-men."

  He replaced the eyeglass, and walked up and down the room for a fewmoments, as though he were pacing a quarter-deck. He looked very tall,and very, very slight and thin; older than his years, tanned and driedby the African sun, which had enhanced his natural darkness. Though hespoke as a boy, he looked like a man. His mother's heart yearned overhim.

  Peter had taken his lack of perception with him into the heart ofSouth Africa, and brought it back intact. Because his body hadtravelled many hundreds of miles over land and sea, he believed thathis mind had opened in proportion to the distance covered. He knewthat men and women of action pick up knowledge of the world withoutpausing on their busy way; but he did not know that it is to thesilent, the sorrowful, and the solitary--to those who have time tolisten--that God reveals the secrets of life.

  She said to herself that everything about him was dear to her; hisgrey eyes, that never saw below the surface of things; his thin, brownface; his youthful affectation; the strange, new growth whichshaded his long upper lip, and softened the plainness of the Crewysphysiognomy, which Peter would not have bartered for the handsomestset of Greek features ever imagined by a sculptor. Even for his faultsLady Mary had a tender toleration; for Peter would not have been Peterwithout them.

  "It would not be fair on Sarah, knowing all London--worth knowing--asshe does," said Peter with pardonable exaggeration, "to rob her of theseason altogether. We shall go up regularly, every year, if--if shemarries me. Of that I am determined, and so"--incidentally--"is she."

  "Nothing could be nicer," said Lady Mary, heartily enough to satisfyeven Peter.

  He spoke with more warmth and naturalness. "She likes to go abroad,mother, too, now and then," he said.

  "That would be delightful," said Lady Mary, eagerly. Her blue eyessparkled. Her interest and enthusiasm were easily roused, after all;and surely these new ideas would make it much easier to tell Peter."Oh, Peter!" she said, clasping her hands, "Paris--Rome--Switzerland!"

  "Wherever Sarah fancies," said Peter, magnanimously. "I can't say Icare much. All I am thinking of is--being with her. It doesn't matter_where_, so long as she is pleased. What does anything matter," hesaid, and his dark face softened as she had never seen it soften yet,"so long as one is with the companion one loves best in the world?"

  "It would be--Paradise," said Lady Mary, in a low voice; and shethought to herself resolutely, "I will tell him now."

  Peter ceased his walk, and came close to her and took her hand. Theemotion had not altogether died out of his voice and face.

  "But you are not to think, mother, that I shall ever again be theselfish boy I used to be--the boy who didn't value your love anddevotion."

  "No, dear, no," she answered, with wet eyes; "I will never thinkso. We can love each other just the same, perhaps even batter, eventhough--Oh, Peter--"

  But Peter was in no mind to brook interruption. He was burning to pourout his plans for her future, and his own.

  "Wherever we may go, and whatever we may be doing," he saidemotionally, "it will be a joy and a comfort to me to know that mydear old mother is always _here_. Taking care of the place and lookingafter the people, and waiting always to welcome me, with her old sweetsmile on her dear old face."

  Peter was not often moved to such enthusiasm, and he was almostovercome by his own eloquence in describing this beautiful picture.

  Lady Mary was likewise overcome. She sank back once more in hercushioned corner, looking at him with a blank dismay that could notescape even his dull observation. How impossible it was to tell Peter,after all! How impossible he always made it!

  "I know you must feel it just at first," he said anxiously; "butyou--you can't expect to keep me all to yourself for ever."

  She shook her head, and tried to smile.

  He grew a little impatient. "After all," he said, "you must bereasonable, mother. Every one has to live his own life."

  Then Lady Mary found words. A sudden rush of indignation--the pent-upfeelings of years--brought the scarlet blood to her cheeks and thefire to her gentle, blue eyes.

  "Every one--but _me_" she said, trembling violently.

  "You!" said Peter, astonished.

  She clasped her hands against her bosom to still the panting andthrobbing that, it seemed to her, must be evident outwardly, so strongwas the emotion that shook her fragile form.

  "Every one--but me," she said. "Does it never--strike you--Peter--thatI, too, would like to live before I die? Whilst you are living yourown life, why shouldn't I be living mine? Why shouldn't _I_ go toLondon, and to Paris, and to Rome, and to Switzerland, or wherever Ichoose, now that you--_you_--have set me free?"

  "Mother," said Peter, aghast, "are you gone mad?"

  "Perhaps I am a little mad," said poor Lady Mary. "People go madsometimes, who have been too long--in prison--they say." Then she sawhis real alarm, and laughed till she cried. "I am not really mad," shesaid. "Do not be frightened, Peter. I--I was only joking."

  "It is enough to frighten anybody when you go on like that," saidPeter, relieved, but angry. "Talking of prison, and rushing about allover the world--I see no joke in that."

  "Why should I be the only one who must not rush all over the world?"said Lady Mary.

  "You must know perfectly well it would be preposterous," said Peter,sullenly, "to break up all your habits, and leave Barracombe and--andall of us--and start a fresh life--at your age. And if this is howyou mock at me and all my plans, I'm sorry I ever took you into myconfidence at all. I might have known I should repent it," he said;and a sob of angry resentment broke his voice.

  "Indeed, I am not mocking at you, Peter," she said, sorely repentantand ashamed of her outburst. "Forgive me, darling! I see it was--notthe moment. You do not understand. You are thinking only of Sarah, asis natural just now. It was not the moment for me to be talking ofmyself."

  "You never used to be selfish," said Peter, thawing somewhat, as shethrew her arms about him, and rested her head against his shoulder.

  She laughed rather sadly. "But perhaps I am growing selfish--in my oldage," said Peter's mother.

  Later, Lady Mary sought John Crewys in the smoking-room. He sprang up,smiled at her, and held out his hand.

  "So Peter has been confiding his schemes to you?"

  "How did you know?"

  "I only guessed. When a man seeks a _tete-a-tete_ so earnestly, it isgenerally to talk about himself. Did the schemes include--Sarah?"

  "They include Sarah--marriage--travelling--London--change of everykind."

  "Already!" cried John, "Bravo, Peter! and hurray for one-and-twenty!And you are free?"

  "Oh, no; I am not to be free."

  "What! Do his schemes include you?"

  "Not altogether."

  "That is surely illogical, if yours are to include him?"

  She smiled faintly. "I am to be always here, to look after the placewhen he and Sarah are travelling or in London. I am to live with hisaunts. He wants to be able to think of me as always waiting he
re towelcome him home, as--as I have been all his life. Not actually inthis house, because--Sarah--my little Sarah--wouldn't like that, itseems; but in the Dower House, close by."

  "I see," said John. "How delightfully ingenuous, and how pleasinglyunselfish a very young man can sometimes be!"

  "Ah! don't laugh at me, John," she said tremulously. "Indeed, justnow, I cannot bear it."

  "Laugh at you, my queen--my saint! How little you know me!" said John,tenderly. "It was at Peter that I was presuming to smile."

  "Is it a laughing matter?" she said wistfully.

  "I think it will be, Mary."

  "I tried so hard to tell him," said Lady Mary, "but I couldn't.Somehow he made it impossible. He looks upon me as quite, quite old."

  John laughed outright. A laugh that rang true even to Lady Mary'ssensitive perceptions.

  "But didn't _you_ look upon everybody over thirty as, quite old whenyou were one-and-twenty? I'm sure I did."

  "Perhaps. But yet--I don't know. I am his mother. It is natural heshould feel so. He made me realize how preposterous it was for me,the mother of a grown-up son, to be thinking selfishly of my ownhappiness, as though I were a young, fresh girl just starting life."

  "I had hoped," said John, quietly, "that you might be thinking alittle of my happiness too."

  "Oh, John! But your happiness and mine seemed all the same thing," shesaid ingenuously. "Yet he thinks of my life as finished; and I wasthinking of it as though it were beginning all over again. He mademe feel so ashamed, so conscience-stricken." She hid her face in herhands. "How could I tell him?"

  "I think," said John, "that the time has come when he must be told. Imeant to put it off until he attained his majority; but since he hasbroached the subject of your leaving this house himself, he has givenus the best opportunity possible. And I also think--that the tellinghad better be left to me."