CHAPTER XIX
Nearly a thousand feet above the fertile valley of the Youle,stretched a waste of moorland. Here all the trees were gnarled anddwarfed above the patches of rust-coloured bracken; save only thedelicate silver birch, which swayed and yielded to the wind.
Great boulders were scattered among the thorn bushes, and over theirrough and glistening breasts were flung velvet coverings of green mossand grey lichen.
On this October day, the heather yet sturdily bore a few last rosyblossoms, and the ripe blackberries shone like black diamonds on thestraggling brambles. Here and there a belated furze-bush erected itsgolden crown.
Over the dim purple of the distant hills, a brighter purple lineproclaimed the sea. Closer at hand, on a ridge exposed to every windof heaven, sighed a little wood of stunted larch and dull blue pine,against a clear and brilliant sky.
Sarah was enthroned on a mossy stone, beneath the yellowing foliage ofa sheltering beech.
Her glorious ruddy hair was uncovered, and a Tyrolese hat was hung ona neighbouring bramble, beside a little tweed coat. She wore a loosewhite canvas shirt, and short tweed skirt; a brown leather belt, andbrown leather boots.
Being less indifferent to creature-comforts than to the preservationof her complexion, Miss Sarah was paying great attention to thecontents of a market-basket by her side. She had chosen a site forthe picnic near a bubbling brook, and had filled her glass with clearsparkling water therefrom, before seating herself to enjoy her coldchicken and bread and butter, and a slice of game-pie.
Peter was very far from feeling any inclination towards displaying thehilarity which an outdoor meal is supposed to provoke. He was obligedto collect sticks, and put a senseless round-bottomed kettle on adamp reluctant fire; to himself he used much stronger adjectives indescribing both; he relieved his feelings slightly by saying that henever ate lunch, and by gloomily eying the game-pie instead of aidingSarah to demolish it.
"It wouldn't be a picnic without a kettle and a fire; and we _must_have hot water to wash up with. I brought a dish-cloth on purpose,"said Sarah. "I can't think why you don't enjoy yourself. You used tobe fond of eating and drinking--_anywhere_--and most of all on themoor--in the good old days that are gone."
"I am not a philosopher like you," said Peter, angrily.
"I am anything but that," said Sarah, with provoking cheerfulness. "Aphilosopher is a thoughtful middle-aged person who puts off enjoyinglife until it's too late to begin."
"I hate middle-aged people," said Peter.
"I am not very fond of them myself, as a rule," said Sarah,indulgently. "They aren't nice and amusing to talk to, like you andme; or rather" (with a glance at her companion's face), "like _me_;and they aren't picturesque and fond of spoiling us, as _really_ oldpeople are. They are just busy trying to get all they can out ofthe world, that's all. But there are exceptions; or, of course, itwouldn't be a rule. Your mother is an exception. No one, young or old,was ever more picturesque or--or more altogether delicious. It was Iwho taught her that new way of doing her hair. By-the-by, how do youlike it?"
"I don't like it at all," growled Peter.
"Perhaps you preferred the old way," said Sarah, turning up her shortnose rather scornfully. "Parted, indeed, and brushed down flat overher ears, exactly like that horrid old Mrs. Ash!"
"Mrs. Ash has lived with us for thirty years," said Peter, in a toneimplying that he desired no liberties to be taken with the names ofhis faithful retainers.
"That doesn't make her any better looking, however," retorted Sarah."In fact, she might have had more chance of learning how to do herhair properly anywhere else, now I come to think of it."
"Of course everything at Barracombe is ugly and old-fashioned," saidPeter, gloomily.
"Except your mother," said Sarah.
"Sarah! I can't stand any more of this rot!" said Peter, starting fromhis couch of heather. "Will you talk sense, or let me?"
Sarah shot a keen glance of inquiry at his moody face.
"Well," she said, in resigned tones, "I did hope to finish my lunch inpeace. I saw there was something the matter when you came striding upthe hill without a word, but I thought it was only that you found thebasket too heavy. Of course, if I had known it was only to be lunchfor one, I would not have put in so many things; and certainly not awhole bottle of papa's best claret. In fact, if I had known I was topicnic practically alone, I would not have crossed the river at all."
Then she saw that Peter was in earnest, and with a sigh of regret,Sarah returned the dish of jam-puffs to the basket.
"I couldn't talk sense, or even listen to it, with those heavenlypuffs under my very nose," she said. "Now, what is it?"
"I hate telling you--I hate talking of it," said Peter, and a darkflush rose to his frowning eyebrows. He threw himself once more atSarah's feet, and turned his face away from her, and towards the bluestreak of distant sea. "John Crewys wants to marry--my mother," hesaid in choking tones.
"Is that all?" said Sarah. "I've seen that for ages. Aren't you glad?"
"Glad!" said Peter.
"I thought," Sarah said innocently, "that _you_ wanted to marry _me_?"
"Sarah!"
"Well!" said Sarah. She looked rather oddly at Peter's recumbentfigure. Then she pushed the loosened waves of her red hair from herforehead with a determined gesture. "Well," she said defiantly, "isn'tthat one obstacle to our marriage removed? Your aunts will go to theDower House, and your mother will leave Barracombe, and you'll havethe place all to yourself. And you dare to tell me you're sorry?"
"Yes," said Peter, sitting up and facing her, "I dare."
"I'm glad of that," said Sarah. Her deep voice softened. "I shouldhave thought less of you if you hadn't dared."
Suddenly she rose from her mossy throne, shook the crumbs off herskirt, and looked down upon Peter with blue eyes sparkling beneath herlong lashes, and the fresh red colour deepening and spreading in hercheeks, until even the tips of her delicate ears and her creamy throatturned pink.
"_Well_," said Sarah, "go and stop it. Make your mother sorry andashamed. It would be very easy. Tell her she's too old to be happy.But say good-bye to me first."
"Sarah!"
"Why is it to be all sunshine for you, and all shade for her?" saidSarah. "Hasn't she wept enough to please you? Mayn't she have her St.Martin's summer? God gives it to her. Will _you_ take it away?"
"Sarah!"
He looked up at her crimsoned tearful face in dismay. Was this Sarahthe infantile--the pink-and-white--the seductive, laughing, impudentSarah? And yet how passionately Peter admired her in this mood ofvirago, which he had never seen since the days of her childish ragesof long ago.
"Why do you suppose," said Sarah, disdainfully, "that I've beenletting you follow _me_ about all this summer, and desert _her_;except to show her how little you are to be depended upon? To bringhome to her how foolish she'd be to fling away her happiness for yoursake. _You_, who at one word from me, were willing to turn her out ofher own home, to live in a wretched little villa at your very door.Don't interrupt me," said Sarah, stamping, "and say you weren'twilling. You told her so. I meant you to tell her, and yet--I couldhave killed you, Peter, when I heard her sweet voice faltering out tome, that she would be ready and glad to give up her place to her boy'swife, whenever the time should come."
"_She_ told you?" cried Peter.
"But she didn't say you'd asked her," cried Sarah, scornfully. "_I_knew it, but she never guessed I did. She was only gently smoothingaway, as she hoped, the difficulties that lay in the path to _your_happiness. Oh, that she could have believed it of me! But she thinksonly of your happiness. _You_, who would snatch away hers this minuteif you could. She never dreamt I knew you'd said a word."
She paused in her impassioned speech, and the tears dropped from thedark blue eyes. Sarah was crying, and Peter was speechless with aweand dismay.
"I think she would have died, Peter," said Sarah, solemnly, "beforeshe would have told me how brutal you'd been,
and how stupid, and howselfish. I meant you to show her all that. I thought it would openher eyes. I was such a fool! As if anything could open the eyes of amother to the faults of her only son."
Peter looked at her with such despair and grief in his dark face thather heart almost softened towards him; but she hardened it againimmediately.
"Do you mean that you--you've been playing with me all this time,Sarah? They--everybody told me--that you were only playing--but I'venever believed it."
"I _meant_ to play with you," said Sarah, turning, if possible, evenredder than before; "I meant to teach you a lesson, and throw youover. And the more I saw of you, the more I didn't repent. You, whodared to think yourself superior to your mother; and, indeed, toany woman! Kings are enslaved by women, you know," said Miss Sarah,tossing her head, "and statesmen are led by them, though they oughtn'tto be. And--and poets worship them, or how could they write poetry?There would be nothing to write about. It is reserved for boys andsavages to look down upon them."
She sat scornfully down again on her boulder, and put her hands to herloosened hair.
"I can't think why a scene always makes one's hair untidy," saidSarah, suddenly bursting into a laugh; but the whiteness of Peter'sface frightened her, and she had some ado to laugh naturally. "And Iam lost without a looking-glass," she added, in a somewhat quaveringtone of bravado.
She pulled out a great tortoise-shell dagger, and a heavy mass ofglorious red-gold hair fell about her piquant face, and her prettymilk-white throat, down to her waist.
"Dear me!" said Miss Sarah. She looked around. Near the bubblingbrook, dark peaty hollows held little pools, which offered Nature'smirror for her toilet.
She went to the side of the stream and knelt down. Her plump whitehands dexterously twisted and secured the long burnished coil. Thenshe glanced slyly round at Peter.
He lay face downwards on the grass. His shoulders heaved. The prettypicture Miss Sarah's coquetry presented had been lost upon the foolishyouth.
She returned in a leisurely manner to her place, and leaning her chinon her hand, and her elbow on her knee, regarded him thoughtfully.
"Where was I? Yes, I remember. It is a lesson for a girl, Peter, neverto marry a boy or a savage."
"Sarah!" said Peter. He raised his face and looked at her. His eyeswere red, but he was too miserable to care; he was, as she had said,only a boy. "Sarah, you're not in earnest! You can't be! I--I know Iought to be angry." Miss Sarah laughed derisively. "Yes, you laugh,for you know too well I can't be angry with you. I love you!" saidPeter, passionately, "though you are--as cruel as though I've not hadpretty well as much to bear to-day, as I know how to stand. First,John Crewys, and now you--saying--"
"Just the truth," said Sarah, calmly.
"I don't deny," said Peter, in a quivering voice, "that--that some ofthe beastly things he said came--came home to me. I've been a selfishbrute to _her_, I always have been. You've said so pretty plainly, andI--I dare say it's true. I think it's true. But to _you_--and I was sohappy." He hid his face in his hand.
"I'm glad you have the grace to see the error of your ways at last,"said Sarah, encouragingly. "It makes me quite hopeful about you. ButI'm sorry to see you're still only thinking of _our_ happiness--I mean_yours_," she corrected herself in haste, for a sudden eager hopeflashed across Peter's miserable young face. "Yours, yours, _yours_.It's your happiness and not hers you think of still, though you've allyour life before you, and she has only half hers. But no one has everthought of her--except me, and one other."
"John Crewys?" said Peter, angrily.
"Not John Crewys at all," snapped Sarah. "He is just thinking of hisown happiness like you are. All men are alike, except the one I'mthinking of. But though I make no doubt that John Crewys is just asselfish as you are, which is saying a good deal, yet, as it happens,John Crewys is the only man who could make her happy."
"What man are you thinking of?" said Peter.
Jealousy was a potent factor in his love for Sarah. He forgot hismother instantly, as he had forgotten her on the day of his return,when Sarah had walked on to the terrace--and into his heart.
"I name no names," said Sarah, "but I hope I know a hero when I seehim; and that man is a hero, though he is--nothing much to look at."
It amused her to observe the varying expressions on her lover's face,which her artless words called forth, one after another.
"If you are really not going to eat any luncheon, Peter," she said, "Imust trouble you to help me to wash up and pack the basket. The fireis out and the water is cold, but it can't be helped. The picnic hasbeen a failure."
"We have the whole afternoon before us. I cannot see that there is anyhurry," said Peter, not stirring.
"I didn't mean to break bad news to you," said Sarah, "until we'd hada pleasant meal together in comfort, and rested ourselves. Butsince you insist on spoiling everything with your horrid prematuredisclosures, I don't see why I shouldn't do the same. I must be athome by four o'clock, because Aunt Elizabeth is coming to Hewelscourtthis very afternoon."
"Lady Tintern!" cried Peter, in dismay. "Then you won't be able tocome to Barracombe this evening?"
"I am not in the habit of throwing over a dinner engagement," saidSarah, with dignity. "But in case they won't let me come," she added,with great inconsistency, "I'll put a lighted candle in the top windowof the tower, as usual. But you can guess how many more of theseenjoyable expeditions we shall be allowed to make. Not that we needregret them if they are all to be as lively as this one. Still--"
She helped herself to a jam-puff, and offered the dish to Peter, withan engaging smile. He helped himself absently.
"I don't deny I am fond of taking meals in the open air, and moreespecially on the top of the moor," said Sarah, with a sigh ofcontent.
"What has she come for?" said Peter.
"I shall be better able to tell you when I have seen her."
"Don't you know?"
"I can pretty well guess. She's going to forgive me, for one thing.Then she'll tell me that I don't deserve my good luck, but that LordAvonwick is so patient and so long-suffering, that he's accepted herassurance that I don't know my own mind (and I'm not sure I do), andhe's going to give me one more chance to become Lady Avonwick, thoughI was so foolish as to say 'No' to his last offer."
"You didn't say 'No' to _my_ last offer!" cried Peter.
"I don't believe an offer of marriage is even legal before you'reone-and-twenty," said Miss Sarah, derisively. "What did it matter whatI said? Haven't I told you I was only playing?"
"You may tell me so a thousand times," said Peter, doggedly, "but Ishall never believe you until I see you actually married to somebodyelse."