CHAPTER XXI
"The very last of the roses," said Lady Mary.
She looked round the banqueting hall. The wax candles shed a radianceupon their immediate surroundings, which accentuated the shadows ofeach unlighted corner. Bowls of roses, red and white and golden,bloomed delicately in every recess against the black oak of thepanels.
The flames were leaping on the hearth about a fresh log thrown intothe red-hot wood-ash. The two old sisters sat almost in the chimneycorner, side by side, where they could exchange their confidencesunheard.
Lady Belstone still mourned her admiral in black silk and _crepe_,whilst Miss Georgina's respect for her brother's memory was mademanifest in plum-coloured satin.
Lady Mary, too, wore black to-night. Since the day of Peter's returnshe had not ventured to don her favourite white. Her gown was ofvelvet; her fair neck and arms shone through the yellowing folds of anold lace scarf which veiled the bosom. A string of pearls was twistedin her soft, brown hair, lending a dim crown to her exquisite andgracious beauty in the tender light of the wax candles.
Candlelight is kind to the victims of relentless time; disdaining tonotice the little lines and shadows care has painted on tired faces;restoring delicacy to faded complexions, and brightness to sad eyes.
The faint illumination was less kind to Sarah, in her white gown andblue ribbons. The beautiful colour, which could face the morningsunbeams triumphantly in its young transparency, was almost too highin the warmth of the shadowy hall, where her golden-red hair made aglory of its own.
The October evening seemed chilly to the aged sisters, and even LadyMary felt the comfort of her velvet gown; but Sarah was impatient ofthe heat of the log fire, and longed for the open air. She enviedPeter and John, who were reported to be smoking outside on theterrace.
"The very last of the roses," said Lady Mary.
"There will be a sharp frost to-night; they won't stand that," saidSarah, shaking her head.
"The poor roses of autumn," said Lady Mary, rather dreamily, "they arenever so sweet as the roses of June."
"But they are much rarer, and more precious," said Sarah.
Lady Mary looked at her and smiled. How quickly Sarah alwaysunderstood!
Sarah caught her hand and kissed it impulsively. Her back was turnedto the old sisters in the chimney corner.
"Lady Mary," she said, "oh, never mind if I am indiscreet; you know Iam always that." A little sob escaped her. "But I _must_ ask you thisone thing--you--you didn't really think _that_ of me, did you?"
"Think what, dear child?" said Lady Mary, bewildered.
Sarah looked round at the two old ladies.
The head of Miss Crewys was inclined towards the crochet she held inher lap. She slumbered peacefully.
Lady Belstone was absently gazing into the heart of the great fire.The heat did not appear to cause her inconvenience. She was nodding.
"They will hear nothing," said Lady Mary, softly. "Tell me, Sarah,what you mean. I would ask you," she said, with a little smile andflush, "to tell me something else, only, I--too--am afraid of beingindiscreet."
"There is nothing I would not tell you," murmured Sarah, "though Ibelieve I would rather tell you--out in the dark--than here," shelaughed nervously.
"The drawing-room is not lighted, except by the moon," said Lady Mary,also a little excited by the thought of what Sarah might, perhaps, begoing to say; "but there is no fire there, I am afraid. The aunts donot like sitting there in the evening. But if you would not be toocold, in that thin, white gown--?"
"I am never cold," said Sarah; "I take too much exercise, I suppose,to feel the cold."
"Then come," said Lady Mary.
They stole past the sleeping sisters into the drawing-room, and closedthe communicating door as noiselessly as possible.
Here only the moonlight reigned, pouring in through the uncurtainedwindows and rendering the gay, rose-coloured room, with its prettycontents, perfectly weird and unfamiliar.
Sarah flung her warm, young arms about her earliest and most belovedfriend, and rested her bright head against the gentle bosom.
"You never thought I meant all the horrid, cruel things I made Petersay to you? You never believed it of me, did you? That I wouldn'tmarry him unless _you_ went away. You whom I love best in the world,and always have," she said defiantly, "or that I would ever alter asingle corner of this dear old house, which used to be so hideous, andwhich you have made so beautiful?"
"Sarah! My--my darling!" said Lady Mary, in frightened, tremblingtones.
"You needn't blame Peter for saying any of it," said Sarah, "for itwas I who put the words into his mouth. It made him miserable tosay them; but he could not help himself. He wasn't really quiteresponsible for his actions. He isn't now. When people are--are inlove, I've often noticed they're not responsible."
"But why--"
"I only wanted to show him what a goose he really was," murmuredSarah, hanging her head. "He came back so pompous and superior;talking about his father's place, and being the only man in the house,and obliged to look after you all; and it was all so ridiculous, andso out of date. I didn't mean to hurt _you_ except just for a moment,because it could not be helped," said Sarah. She hid her face in LadyMary's neck, half laughing and half crying. "I was so afraid you--youwere taking him seriously; and--and he was so selfish, wanting to keepyou all to himself."
"Oh, Sarah, hush!" Lady Mary cried.
She divined it all in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye. It was toSarah that she owed the pain and mortification, not to her boy.
Sarah had said Peter was not responsible.
Was he only a puppet in the hands of the girl he loved? Could Johnever have been thus blindly led and influenced? Her wounded heart saidquickly that John was of a different, nobler, stronger nature. But themother's instinct leapt to defend her son, and cried also that Johnwas a man, and Peter but a boy in love, ready to sacrifice the wholeworld to her he worshipped. His father would never have done that.Lady Mary was even capable of an unreasoning pride in Peter's power ofloving; though it was not her--alas! it never had been her--for whomher boy was willing to make the smallest sacrifice.
But he had honestly meant to devote himself to his mother, accordingto his lights, had Sarah's influence not come in the way. Sarah,who must have divined her secret all the while, and who, with thedauntlessness of youth, had not hesitated to force open the doorinto a world so bright that Lady Mary almost feared to enter it, buttrembled, as it were, upon the threshold of her own happiness--andPeter's.
They were silent, holding each other in a close embrace, bothconscious of the passing and repassing footsteps upon the gravel pathwithout.
Sarah was the first to recover herself. She put Lady Mary into herfavourite chair, and came and knelt by her side.
"That's over, and I'm forgiven," she said softly.
"You will make my boy--happy?" whispered Lady Mary.
"I can't tell whether he will be happy or not, if--if he marries me,"said Sarah. She appeared to smother a laugh. "But Aunt Elizabeth seemsreconciled to the idea. I think you bewitched her this afternoon. Sheis in love with you, and with this house, and with Mr. John. But moreparticularly with you. When I said I had refused Peter over and overagain, she said I was a fool. But she says that whatever I do. I--Isuppose I let her think," said Sarah, leaning her head against LadyMary's knee, "that _some day_--if he is still idiotic enough to wishit--and if _you_ don't mind--"
"My pretty Sarah--my darling!"
"I'm sure it's only because he's your son," said Sarah, vehemently;"I've always wanted to be your child. What's the use of pretending Ihaven't? Think what a time poor mamma used to give me, and what anangel of goodness you were to the poor little black sheep who lovedyou so."
Sarah's white dress, shining in the moonlight, caught the attention ofJohn Crewys, through the open window. He paused in his walk outside.Peter's voice uttered something, and the two dark figures passedslowly on.
"They won't interrupt
us," said Sarah, serenely. "I told Peter atdinner that I wanted to talk to you, and that he was to go and smokewith Mr. John, and behave as if nothing had happened. He said hehadn't spoken to him since this morning. He is all agog to know whatLady Tintern came for. But he won't dare to come and interrupt."
"What have you done to my boy," said Lady Mary, half laughing andhalf indignant, "that your lightest word is to be his law? And oh,Sarah"--her tone grew wistful--"it is strange--even though he lovesyou, that you should understand him better than I, who would lay downmy life for him."
"It's very easy to see why," said Sarah, calmly. The deep contraltomusic of her voice contrasted oddly with her matter-of-fact manner andwords. "It's just that Peter and I are made of common clay, and thatyou are not. So, of course, we understand each other. I don't mean tosay that we don't quarrel pretty often. I dare say we always shall.I am good-tempered, but I like my own way; and, besides"--she spokequite cheerfully--"anybody would quarrel with Peter. But you and heare a little like Aunt Elizabeth and me. _She_ wants me to behave likea _grande dame_, and to know exactly who everybody is, and treat themaccordingly, and be never too much interested in anything, but neverbored; and always look beautiful, and, above all, _appropriate_. And_I_--would rather be taking the dogs for a run on the moors, in ashort skirt and big boots; or up at four in the morning otter-hunting;or out with the hounds; or--or--digging in the garden, for thatmatter;--than be the prettiest girl in London, and going to a Stateball or the opera. You see, I've tried both kinds of life now, andI know which I like best. And--and flirting with people is pleasantenough in its way, but it gives you a kind of sick feeling afterwards,which hunting never does. I don't think I'm really much of a hand atsentiment," said Sarah, with great truth.
"And Peter?" asked Lady Mary, gently.
"You wanted Peter to be a--a noble kind of person, a great statesman,or something of that sort, didn't you?" Her soft lips caressed LadyMary's hand apologetically. "To be fond of reading and poetry, and allsorts of things; and _he_ wanted to shoot rabbits and go fishing. But,of course, he couldn't help _knowing_ you wanted him to be somethinghe wasn't, and never could be, and didn't want to be."
"Oh, Sarah!" said poor Lady Mary. "But--yes, it is true what you aresaying."
"It's true, though I say it so badly; and I know it, because, as Itell you, Peter and I are just the same sort at heart. I've beenteasing him, pretending to be a worldling, but foreign travel andentertaining in London are just about as unsuited to me as to Peter.I--I'm glad"--she uttered a quick, little sob--"that I--I played mypart well while it all lasted; but you know it wasn't so much me as mylooks that did it. And because I didn't care, I was blunt and natural,and they thought it _chic_. But it wasn't _chic_; it was that I_really_ didn't care. And I don't think I've ever quite succeeded intaking Peter in either; for he _couldn't_ believe I could really thinkany sort of life worth living but the dear old life down here, whichhe and I love best in the world, in our heart of hearts."
The twinkling, frosty blue points of starlight glittered in thecloudless vault of heaven, above the moonlit stillness of the valley.The clear-cut shadows of the balcony and the stone urns fell acrossthe cold paths and whitened grass of the terrace.
Ghostlike, Sarah's white form emerged from the darkness of the room,and stood on the threshold of the window.
John threw away the end of his cigar, and smiled. "I presume theinterview we were not to interrupt is over?" he said, good-humouredly."Surely it is not very prudent of Miss Sarah to venture out-of-doorsin that thin gown; or has she a cloak of some kind--"
But Peter was not listening to him.
Sarah, wrapped in her white cloak and hood, had already flitted acrossthe moonlit terrace, into the deep shadow of the ilex grove; and theboy was by her side before John could reach the window she had justquitted.
"Oh, is it you, Peter?" said Miss Sarah, looking over her shoulder. "Iwas looking for you. I have put on my things. It is getting late, andI thought you would see me home."
"Must you go already?" cried Peter. "Have they sent to fetch you?"
"I dare say I could stay a few moments," said Sarah; "but, of course,my maid came ages ago, as usual. But if there was anything youparticularly wanted to say--you know how tiresome she is, keeping asclose as she can, to listen to every word--why, it would be better tosay it now. I am not in such a hurry as all that."
"You know very well I want to say a thousand things," said Peter,vehemently. "I have been walking up and down till I thought I shouldgo mad, making conversation with John Crewys." Peter was honestlyunaware that it was John who had made the conversation. "Has LadyTintern come to take you away, Sarah? And why did she call on mymother this afternoon, the very moment she arrived?"
"Your mother would be the proper person to tell you that. How should Iknow?" said Sarah, reprovingly. "Have you asked her?"
"How can I ask her?" said Peter. His voice trembled. "I've not spokento her once--except before other people--since John Crewys toldme--what I told you this afternoon. I've scarcely seen any one since Ileft you. I wandered off for a beastly walk in the woods by myself,as miserable as any fellow would be, after all you said to me. Do youthink I--I've got no feelings?"
His voice sounded very forlorn, and Sarah felt remorseful. After all,Peter was her comrade and her oldest friend, as well as her lover. Atthe very bottom of her heart there lurked a remnant of her childishadmiration for him, which would, perhaps, never quite be extinguished.The boy who got into scrapes, and was thrashed by his father, and whodid not mind; the boy who vaulted over fences she had to climb orcreep through; who went fishing, and threw a fly with so light andsure a hand, and filled his basket, whilst she wound her line abouther skirts, and caught her hook, and whipped the stream in vain.He had climbed a tall fir-tree once, and brought down in safety aweeping, shame-stricken little girl with a red pigtail, whose daringhad suddenly failed her; and he had gone up the tree himself like asquirrel afterwards, and fetched her the nest she coveted. Nor did heever taunt her with her cowardice nor revert to his own exploit; butthis was because Peter forgot the whole adventure in an hour, thoughSarah remembered it to the end of her life. He climbed so many trees,and went birds'-nesting every spring to his mother's despair.
Sarah thought of him wandering all the afternoon in his own woods,lonely and mortified, listening to the popping of the guns on theopposite side of the hill, which echoed through the valley; she knewwhat those sounds meant to Peter--the boy who had shot so straight andtrue, and who would never shoulder a gun any more.
"I don't see why you should be so miserable," she said, as lightlyas she could; but there were tears in her eyes, she was so sorry forPeter.
"I dare say you don't," said Peter, bitterly. "Nobody has ever made afool of you, no doubt. A wretched, self-confident fool, who gave youhis whole heart to trample in the dust. I suppose I ought to haveknown you were only--playing with me--as you said--a wretched objectas I am now, but--"
"An object!" cried Sarah, so anxious to stem the tide of hisreproaches that she scarce knew what she was saying, "which appealsto the soft side of every woman's heart, high or low, rich or poor,civilized or savage--a wounded soldier."
"Do you think I want to be pitied?" said Peter, glowering.
"Pitied!" said Sarah, softly. "Do you call this pity?" She leantforward and kissed his empty sleeve.
Peter trembled at her touch.
"It is--because you are sorry for me," he said hoarsely.
"Sorry!" said Sarah, scornfully; "I glory in it." Then she suddenlybegan to cry. "I am a wicked girl," she sobbed, "and you _were a_fool, if you ever thought I could be happy anywhere but in this stupidold valley, or with--with any one but you. And I am rightly punishedif my--my behaviour has made you change your mind. Because I _did_mean, just at first, to throw you over, and to--to go away from you,Peter. But--but the arm that wasn't there--held me fast."
"Sarah!"
She hid her face against his shoulder.
*
* * * *
John Crewys was playing softly on the little oak piano in thebanqueting hall, and Lady Mary stood before the open hearth, absentlywatching the sparks fly upward from the burning logs, and listening.
The old sisters had gone to bed.
Sarah's bright face, framed in her white hood, fresh and rosy from thecold breath of the October night, appeared in the doorway.
"Peter is in there--waiting for you," she whispered, blushing.
John Crewys rose from the piano, and came forward and held out hishand to Sarah, with a smile.
Lady Mary hurried past them into the unlighted drawing-room. Her eyes,dazzled by the sudden change, could distinguish nothing for a moment.
But Peter was there, waiting, and perhaps Lady Mary was thankful forthe darkness, which hid her face from her son.
"Peter!"
"Mother!"
She clung to her boy, and a kiss passed between them which said allthat was in their hearts that night--of appeal--of understanding--offorgiveness--of the love of mother and son.
And no foolish words of explanation were ever uttered to mar thegracious memory of that sacred reconciliation.
THE END
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