CHAPTER III
John Crewys looked round the hall at Barracombe House with curious,interested eyes.
It was divided from the outer vestibule on the western side of thebuilding by a massive partition of dark oak, and it retained the solidbeams and panelled walls of Elizabethan days; but the oak had beenbarbarously painted, grained and varnished. Only the staircase was soheavily and richly carved, that it had defied the ingenuity of thecomb engraver. It occupied the further end of the hall, oppositethe entrance door, and was lighted dimly by a small heavily leaded,stained-glass window. The floor was likewise black, polished with ageand the labour of generations. A deeply sunken nail-studded door ledinto a low-ceiled library, containing a finely carved frieze andcornice, and an oak mantelpiece, which John Crewys earnestly desiredto examine more closely; the shield-of-arms above it bore the figuresof 1603, but the hall itself was of an earlier date.
Parallel to it was the suite of lofty, modern, green-shutteredreception-rooms, which occupied the south front of the house, andinto which an opening had been cut through the massive wall next thechimney.
The character of the hall was, however, completely destroyed by thedecoration which had been bestowed upon it, and by the furniture andpictures which filled it.
John Crewys looked round with more indignation than admiration at thehome of his ancestors.
In the great oriel window stood a round mahogany table, bearing abouquet of wax flowers under a glass shade. Cases of stuffed birdsornamented every available recess; mahogany and horsehair chairswere set stiffly round the walls at even distances. A heap of foldedmoth-eaten rugs and wraps disfigured a side-table, and beneath itstood a row of clogs and goloshes.
Round the walls hung full-length portraits of an early Victorian date.The artist had spent a couple of months at Barracombe fifty yearssince, and had painted three generations of the Crewys family, whowere then gathered together beneath its hospitable roof. His diligencehad been more remarkable than his ability. At any other time JohnCrewys would have laughed outright at this collection of works of art.
But the air was charged with tragedy, and he could not laugh. Hisseriousness commended him favourably, had he known it, to the twoold ladies, his cousins, Sir Timothy's half-sisters, who were seatedbeside the great log fire, and who regarded him with approving eyes.For their stranger cousin had that extreme gentleness and courtesyof manner and regard, which sometimes accompanies unusual strength,whether of character or of person.
It was a pity, old Lady Belstone whispered to her spinster sister,that John was not a Crewys, for he had a remarkably fine head, and hadhe been but a little taller and slimmer, would have been a credit tothe family.
Certainly John was not a Crewys. He possessed neither grey eyes, nor alarge nose, nor the height which should be attained by every man andwoman bearing that name, according to the family record.
But though only of middle size, and rather square-shouldered, he was,nevertheless, a distinguished-looking man, with a finely shaped headand well-cut features. Clean shaven, as a great lawyer ought to be,with a firm and rather satirical mouth, a broad brow, and brighthazel eyes set well apart and twinkling with humour. No doubt John'sappearance had been a factor in his successful career.
The sisters, themselves well advanced in the seventies, spoke of himand thought of him as a young man; a boy who had succeeded in life inspite of small means, and an extravagant mother, to whom he hadbeen obliged to sacrifice his patrimony. But though he carried hisforty-five years lightly, John Crewys had left his boyhood very farbehind him. His crisp dark hair was frosted on the temples; he stoopeda little after the fashion of the desk-worker; he wore pince-nez; hismanner, though alert, was composed and dignified. The restlessness,the nervous energy of youth, had been replaced by the calm confidenceof middle age--of tested strength, of ripe experience.
On his side, John Crewys felt very kindly towards the venerableladies, who represented to him all the womankind of his own race.
Both sisters possessed the family characteristics which he lacked.They were tall and surprisingly upright, considering the weight ofyears which pressed upon their thin shoulders. They retained themanners--almost the speech--of the eighteenth century, to which thegrandmother who was responsible for their upbringing had belonged;and, with the exception of a very short experience of matrimonyin Lady Belstone's case, they had always resided exclusively atBarracombe.
Lady Belstone, besides her widowed dignity, had the advantage ofher sister in appearance, mainly because she permitted art, in somedegree, to repair the ravages of time. A stiff _toupet_ of white curlscrowned the withered brow, below a widow's cap; and, when she smiled,which was not very often, a double row of pearls was not unpleasantlydisplayed. Miss Crewys had never succumbed to the temptations ofworldly vanity. She scrupulously parted her scanty grey locks aboveher polished forehead, and cared not how wide the parting grew. Ifshe wore a velvet bow upon her scalp, it was, as she truly said, fordecency, and not for ornament; and further, she allowed her wholesome,ruddy cheeks to fall in, as her ever-lengthening teeth fell out. Thefrequent explanations which ensued, regarding the seniority of thewidow, were a source of constant satisfaction to Miss Crewys, andvexation to her sister.
"You might be a hundred years old, Georgina," she would angrilylament.
"I very soon _shall_ be a hundred years old, Isabella, if I live aslong as my grandmother did," Miss Crewys would triumphantly reply. "Itis surprising to me that a woman who was never good-looking at thebest of times, should cling to her youth as you do."
"It is more surprising to me that you should let yourself go to rackand ruin, and never stretch out a hand to help yourself."
"I am what God made me," said the pious Georgina, "whereas you doeverything but paint your face, Isabella; and I have little doubt butwhat you will come to that by the time you are eighty."
But though they disputed hotly on occasion the sisters generallypreserved a united front before the world, and only argued, sinceargue they must, in the most polite and affectionate terms.
The firelight shed its cheerful glow over the laden tea-table, and wasreflected in the silver urn, and the crimson and gold and blue of theCrown Derby tea-set. But the old ladies, though casting longing eyesin the direction of the teapot, religiously abstained from offering totouch it.
"No, John," said Miss Crewys, in a tone of exemplary patience; "Ihave made it a rule never to take upon myself any of the duties ofhospitality in my dear brother's house, ever since he married,--oddas it may seem, when we remember how he used once to sit at this verytable in his little bib and tucker, whilst Isabella poured out hismilk, and I cut his bread and butter."
"We _both_ make the rule, John," said Lady Belstone, mournfully, "or,of course, as the elder sister, _I_ should naturally pour out the teain our dear Lady Mary's absence."
"Of course, of course," said John Crewys.
"Forgive me, Isabella, but we have discussed this point before," saidMiss Crewys. "Though I cannot deny, our cousin being, as he is, alawyer, his opinion would carry weight. But I think he will agree with_me_"--John smiled--"that when the elder daughter of a house marries,she forfeits her rights of seniority in that house, and the nextsister succeeds to her place."
"I should suppose that might be the case," John, bowing politely inthe direction of the widow.
"I never disputed the fact, Georgina. It is, as our cousin says,self-evident," said Lady Belstone, returning the bow. "But I havealways maintained, and always shall, that when the married sistercomes back widowed to the home of her fathers, the privileges of birthare restored to her."
Both sisters turned shrewd, expectant grey eyes upon their cousin.
"It is--it is rather a nice point," said John Crewys, as gravely as hecould.
He welcomed thankfully the timely interruption of an opening door andthe entrance of Canon Birch and the doctor.
At the same moment, from the archway which supported the great oakstaircase, the butler entered, carrying
lights.
"Is her ladyship not yet returned from her walk, Ash?" asked LadyBelstone, with affected surprise.
"Her ladyship came in some time ago, my lady, and went to see SirTimothy. She left word she was gone upstairs to change her walkingthings, and would be down directly."
The sisters greeted the canon with effusion, and Dr. Blundell withfrigid civility.
John Crewys shook hands with both gentlemen.
"I am sorry I cannot offer you tea, Canon Birch, until mysister-in-law comes down," said Miss Crewys.
"Our dear Lady Mary is so very unpunctual," said Lady Belstone.
"I dare say something has detained her," said the canon,good-humouredly.
"It often happens that my sister and myself are kept waiting a quarterof an hour or more for our tea. We do not complain," said LadyBelstone.
John Crewys began to feel a little sorry for Lady Mary.
As the sisters appeared inclined to devote themselves to theirclerical visitor rather exclusively, he drew near the recess to whichDr. Blundell had retired, and joined him in the oriel window.
"Have you never been here before?" asked the doctor, rather abruptly.
"Never," said John Crewys, smiling. "I understand my cousins are notmuch given to entertaining visitors. I have never, in fact, seen anyof them but once before. That was at Sir Timothy's wedding, twentyyears ago."
"Barely nineteen," said the doctor.
"I believe it was nineteen, since you remind me," said John, slightlyastonished. "I remember thinking Sir Timothy a lucky man."
"I dare say _he_ looked much about the same as he does now," said thedoctor.
"Well," John said, "perhaps a little slimmer, you know. Not much. Aniron-grey, middle-aged-looking man. No; he has changed very little."
"He was born elderly, and he will die elderly," said the doctor,shortly. "Neither the follies of youth nor the softening of agewill ever be known to Sir Timothy." He paused, noting the surprisedexpression of John's face, and added apologetically, "I am a native ofthese parts. I have known him all my life."
"And I am--only a stranger," said John. He hesitated, and lowered hisvoice. "You know why I came?"
"Yes, I know. I am very glad you did come," said the doctor. His tonechanged. "Here is Lady Mary," he said.
John Crewys was struck by the sudden illumination of Dr. Blundell'splain, dark face. The deeply sunken eyes glowed, and the sadness andweariness of their expression were dispelled.
His eyes followed the direction of the doctor's gaze, and his own faceimmediately reflected the doctor's interest.
Lady Mary was coming down the wide staircase, in the light of a groupof wax candles held by a tall bronze angel.
She was dressed with almost rigid simplicity, and her abundantlight-brown hair was plainly parted. She was pale and evensad-looking, but beautiful still; with a delicate and regular profile,soft blue eyes, and a sweet, rather tremulous mouth.
John's heart seemed to contract within him, and then beat fast with asensation that was not entirely pity, because those eyes--the bluest,he remembered, that he had ever seen--brought back to him, suddenlyand vividly, the memory of the exquisitely fresh and lovely girl whohad married her elderly guardian nineteen years since.
He recollected that some members of the Crewys family had agreed thatLady Mary Setoun had done well for herself, "a penniless lass wi' alang pedigree;" for Sir Timothy was rich. Others had laughed, and saidthat Sir Timothy was determined that his heirs should be able to boastsome of the bluest blood in Scotland on their mother's side,--but thathe might have waited a little longer for his bride.
She was so young, barely seventeen years old, and so very lovely, thatJohn Crewys had felt indignant with Sir Timothy, whose appearance andmanner did not attract him. He was reminded that the bride owed almosteverything she possessed in the world to her husband, but he was notpacified.
The glance of the gay blue eyes,--the laugh on the curved youngmouth,--the glint of gold on the sunny brown hair,--had played havocwith John's honest heart. He had not a penny in the world at thattime, and could not have married her if he would; but from Lady Mary'swedding he carried away in his breast an image--an ideal--which hadperhaps helped to keep him unwed during these later years of hissuccessful career.
Why did she look so sad?
John's kind heart had melted somewhat towards Sir Timothy, when thepoor gentleman had sought him in his chambers on the previous day,and appealed to him for help in his extremity. He was sorry for hiscousin, in spite of the pompousness and arrogance with which SirTimothy unconsciously did his best to alienate even those whom he mostdesired to attract.
He had come to Devonshire, at great inconvenience to himself, inresponse to that appeal; and in his hurry, and his sympathy for hiscousin's trouble, he had scarcely given a thought to the momentaryromance connected with his first and only meeting with Lady Mary. Yetnow, behold, after nineteen years, the look on her sweet face thrilledhis middle-aged bosom as it had thrilled his young manhood. Johnsmiled or thought he smiled, as he came forward to be presented oncemore to Sir Timothy's wife; but he was, nevertheless, rather pleasedto find that he had not outgrown the power of being thus romanticallyattracted.
"I hope I'm not late," said the soft voice. "You see, no one expectedSir Timothy to come home so soon, and I was out. Is that Cousin John?We met once before, at my wedding. You have not changed a bit; Iremember you quite well," said Lady Mary. She came forward and heldout two welcoming hands to her visitor.
John Crewys bowed over those little white hands, and became suddenlyconscious that his vague, romantic sentiment had given place to a veryreal emotion--an almost passionate anxiety to shield one so fair andgentle from the trouble which was threatening her, and of which, as heknew, she was perfectly unconscious.
The warmth of her impulsive welcome did not, of course, escape thekeen eyes of the sisters-in-law, which, in such matters as these, werequite undimmed by age.
"Why didn't somebody pour out tea?" said Lady Mary.
"We know your rights, Mary," said Miss Crewys. "Never shall it be saidthat dear Timothy's sisters ousted his wife from her proper place,because she did not happen to be present to occupy it."
"Besides," said Lady Belstone, "you have, no doubt, some excellentreason, my love, for the delay."
Lady Mary's blue eyes, glancing at John, said quite plainly andbeseechingly to his understanding, "They are old, and rather cranky,but they don't mean to be unkind. Do forgive them;" and John smiledreassuringly.
"I'm afraid I haven't much excuse to offer," she said ingenuously. "Iwas out late, and I tired myself; and then I heard Sir Timothy hadcome back, so I went to see him. And then I made haste to change mydress, and it took a long time--and that's all."
The three gentlemen laughed forgivingly at this explanation, and thetwo ladies exchanged shocked glances.
"Our cousin John did his best to entertain us, and we him," said LadyBelstone, stiffly.
"His best--and how good that must be!" said Lady Mary, with prettyspirit. "The great counsel whose eloquence is listened to withbreathless attention in crowded courts, and read at everybreakfast-table in England."
"That is a very delightful picture of the life of a brieflessbarrister," said John Crewys, smiling.
"Mary," said Miss Crewys, in lowered tones of reproof, "I understoodthat _divorce_ cases, unhappily, occupied the greater part of ourcousin John's attention."
"We've heard of you, nevertheless--we've heard of you, Mr. Crewys,"said the canon, nervously interposing, "even in this out-of-the-waycorner of the west."
"But there is one breakfast-table, at least, in England, wheredivorce cases are _not_ perused, and that is my brother Timothy'sbreakfast-table," said Lady Belstone, very distinctly.
John hastened to fill up the awkward pause which ensued, by areference to the beauty of the hall.
"I'm afraid we don't live up to our beautiful old house," said LadyMary, shaking her head. "There are some lovely things stored away
in the gallery upstairs, and some beautiful pictures hanging there,including the Vandyck, you know, which Charles II. gave to oldSir Peter, your cavalier ancestor. But the gallery is almost alumber-room, for the floor is too unsafe to walk upon. And down here,as you see, we are terribly Philistine."
"This hall was furnished by my grandmother for her son's marriage,"said Miss Crewys.
"And she sent all your great-grandmother's treasures to the attics,"said Lady Mary, with rather a wilful intonation. "I always long tobring them to light again, and to make this place livable; but myhusband does not like change."
"Dear Timothy is faithful to the past," said Miss Crewys,majestically.
"I wish old Lady Crewys had been as faithful," said Lady Mary,shrugging her shoulders.
"Young people always like changes," said Lady Belstone, moreleniently.
"Young people!" said Lady Mary, with a rather pathetic smile."John will think you are laughing at me. Am I to be young still atfive-and-thirty?"
"To be sure," said John, "unless you are going to be so unkind as tomake a man only ten years your senior feel elderly."
Miss Crewys interposed with a simple statement. "In my day, the age ofa lady was never referred to in polite conversation. Least of all byherself. I never allude to mine."
"You are unmarried, Georgina," said Lady Belstone, unexpectedlyturning upon her ally. "Unmarried ladies are always sensitive on thesubject of age. I am sure I do not care who knows that my poor admiralwas twenty years my senior. And _his_ age can be looked up in any bookof reference. It would have been useless to try and conceal it,--a manso well known."
"A woman is as old as she looks," said the canon, soothingly, for theannoyance of Miss Crewys was visible. "I am bound to say that MissCrewys looks exactly the same as when I first knew her."
"Of course, a spinster escapes the wear and tear of matrimony," saidMiss Crewys, glaring at her widowed relative.
"H'm, h'm!" said Dr. Blundell. "By-the-by, have you inspected the oldpicture gallery, Mr. Crewys?"
"Not yet," said John.
Lady Belstone shot a glance of speechless indignation at her sister.Sympathy between them was immediately restored. Prompt action wasnecessary on the part of the family, or this presumptuous physicianwould be walking round the house to show John Crewys the portraits ofhis own ancestors.
"_I_ shall be delighted to show our cousin the pictures in the galleryand in the dining-room," said Miss Crewys, "if my sister Isabella willaccompany me, and if Lady Mary has no objections."
"You are very kind," said John. He rose and walked to a small rosewoodcabinet of curios. "I see there are some beautiful miniatures here."
"Oh, those do not belong to the family."
"They are Setoun things--some of the few that came to me," said LadyMary, rather timidly. "I am afraid they would not interest you."
"Not interest me! But indeed I care only too much for such things,"said John. "Here is a Cosway, and, unless I very much mistake, aPlimer,--and an Engleheart."
Lady Mary unlocked the cabinet with pretty eagerness, and put a smallmorocco case into his hands.
"Then here is something you will like to see."
For a moment John did not understand. He glanced quickly from the rowof tiny, pearl-framed, old-world portraits, of handsome nobles androse-tinted court dames, to the very indifferent modern miniature heheld.
The portrait of a schoolboy,--an Eton boy with a long nose and small,grey eyes, and an expression distinctly rather sulky and lowering thanopen or pleasing. Not a stupid face, however, by any means.
"It is my boy--Peter," said Lady Mary, softly.
To her the face was something more than beautiful. She looked up atJohn with a happy certainty of his interest in her son.
"Here he is again, when he was younger. He was a pretty little fellowthen, as you see."
"Very pretty. But not very like you," said John, scarcely knowing whathe said.
He was strangely moved and touched by her evident confidence inhis sympathy, though his artistic tastes were outraged by the twoportraits she asked him to admire. He reflected that women were veryextraordinary creatures; ready to be pleased with anything Providencemight care to bestow upon them in the shape of a child, evencross-looking boys with long noses and small eyes. The heir ofBarracombe resembled his aunts rather than his parents.
"He is a thorough Crewys; not a bit like me. All the Setouns are fair,I believe. Peter is very dark. He is such a big fellow now; tallerthan I am. I sometimes wish," said Lady Mary, laying the miniature onthe table as though she could not bear to shut it away immediately,"that one's children never grew up. They are such darlings when theyare little, and they are bound, of course, to disappoint one sometimesas they grow older."
John Crewys felt almost murderously inclined towards Peter. So theyoung cub had presumed to disappoint his mother as he grew older! Howdared he?
Poor Lady Mary was quite unconscious of the feelings with which hegazed at the little case in his hand.
"Not that my boy has ever _really_ disappointed me--yet," she said,with her pretty apologetic laugh. "I only mean that, in the course ofhuman nature, it's bound to come, now and then."
"No doubt," said John, gently.
Then she allowed him to examine the rest of the cabinet, whilst shetalked on, always of Peter--his horsemanship and his shooting and hisprowess in every kind of sport and game.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, Lady Belstone was holding a hurried consultation with hersister.
"How thoughtless you are, Georgina, asking our cousin into thedining-room just when Ash must be laying the cloth for dinner. He willbe sadly put about."
"Dear, dear, it quite slipped my memory, Isabella."
"You have no head at all, Georgina."
"Can I frame an excuse?" said Miss Crewys, piteously, "or will hethink it discourteous?"
"Leave it to me, Georgina," said Lady Belstone, with the air of adiplomat. "Mary, my love!"
Lady Mary started. "Yes, Isabella."
"Georgina has very properly recalled to me that candles and lamps makea very poor light for viewing the family portraits. You know, my love,the Vandyck is so very dark and black. She proposes, therefore, withyour permission, to act as our cousin's cicerone to-morrow morning, inthe daytime. Shall we say--at eleven o'clock, John?"
Canon Birch started nervously, and the doctor frowned at him.
"At eleven o'clock," said John, in steady tones; and, as he spoke, SirTimothy entered the hall.