Peter's Mother Part 16

"Too much consideration hitherto has ruined him," said the doctor, shortly. "But it's not of Peter I'm thinking, one way or the other.

From the time he went first to school, she's had to depend entirely on her own resources--and what are they?"

He paused, as though to gather strength and energy for his indictment.

"From the time she was brought here--except for that one outing and a change to Torquay, I believe, after Peter's birth--she has scarce set foot outside Barracombe. Sir Timothy would not, so he was resolved she should not. His sisters, who have as much cultivation as that stone figure, disapproved of novel-reading--or of any other reading, I should fancy--and he followed suit. Books are almost unknown in this house. The library bookcases were locked. Sir Timothy opened them once in a while, and his sisters dusted the books with their own hands; it was against tradition to handle such valuable bindings. He hated music, and the piano was not to be played in his presence. Have you ever tried it? I'm told you're musical. It belonged to Lady Belstone's mother, the Honourable Rachel. That is her harp which stands in the corner of the hall. Her daughter once tinkled a little, I believe; but the prejudices of the ruling monarch were religiously obeyed. Music was _taboo_ at Barracombe. Dancing was against their principles, and theatres they regard with horror, and have never been inside one in their lives. Nothing took Sir Timothy to London but business; and if it were possible to have the business brought to Barracombe, his solicitor, Mr. Crawley, visited him here."

The doctor spoke in lower tones, as he recurred to his first theme.

"I don't think she found out for years, or realized what a prisoner she was. They caught and pinned her down so young. There are no very near neighbours--I mean, not the sort of people they would recognize as neighbours--except the Hewels. Youlestone is such an out-of-the-way place, and Sir Timothy was never on intimate terms with any one. Mrs.

Hewel is a fool--there was only little Sarah whom Lady Mary made a pet of--but she had no friends. Sir Timothy and his sisters made visiting such a stiff and formal business, that it was no wonder she hated paying calls; the more especially as it could lead to nothing. He would not entertain; he grudged the expense. I was present at a scene he once made because a large party drove over from a distant house and stayed to tea. He said he could not entertain the county. She dared ask no one to her house--she, who was so formed and fitted by nature to charm and attract, and enjoy social intercourse." His voice faltered. "They stole her youth," he said.

"What do you want me to do?" said John, though he was vaguely conscious that he understood for what the doctor was pleading.

He sat down by the fountain; and the doctor, resting a mended boot on the end of the bench, leant on his bony knee, and looked down wistfully at John's thoughtful face, broad brow, and bright, intent eyes.

"You are a very clever man, Mr. Crewys," he said humbly. "A man of the world, successful, accomplished, and, I believe, honest"--he spoke with a simplicity that disarmed offence--"or I should not have ventured as I have ventured. Somehow you inspire me with confidence. I believe you can save her. I believe you could find a way to bring back her peace of mind; the interest in life--the gaiety of heart--that is natural to her. If I were in your place, not the two old women--not Sir Timothy's ghost--not that poor conceited slip of a lad who may be shot to-morrow--would stand in my way. I would bring back the colour to her cheek, and the light to her eye, and the music to her voice--"

"Whilst her boy is in danger?" John asked, almost scornfully. He thought he knew Lady Mary better than the doctor did, after all.

"I tell you _nothing_ would stop me," said Blundell, vehemently.

"Before I would let her fret herself to death--afraid to break the spells that have been woven round her, bound as she is, hand and foot, with the prejudices of the dead--I would--I would--take her to South Africa myself," he said brilliantly. "The voyage would bring her back to life."

John got up. "That is an idea," he said. He paused and looked at the doctor. "You have known her longer than I. Have you said nothing to her of all this?"

The doctor smiled grimly. "Mr. Crewys," he said, "some time since I spoke my mind--a thing I am over-apt to do--_of_ Peter, and _to_ him.

The lad has forgiven me; he is a man, you see, with all his faults.

But Lady Mary, though she has all the virtues of a woman, is also a mother. A woman often forgives; a mother, never. Don't forget."

"I will not," said John.

"And you'll do it--"

"Use the unlimited authority that has been placed in my hands, by improving this tumble-down, overgrown place?" said John, slowly. "Let in light, air, and suns.h.i.+ne to Barracombe, and do my best to brighten Lady Mary's life, without reference to any one's prejudices, past or present?"

"You've got the idea," said the doctor, joyfully. "Will you carry it out?"

"Yes," said John.

CHAPTER IX

The new moon brightened above the rim of the opposite hill, and touched the river below with silver reflections. On the gra.s.s banks sloping away beneath the terrace gardens, sheets of bluebells shone almost whitely on the gra.s.s. The silent house rose against the dark woods, whitened also here and there by the blossom of wild cherry-trees.

Lady Mary stepped from the open French windows of the drawing-room into the still, scented air of the April night. She stood leaning against the stone balcony, and gazing at the wonderful panorama of the valley and overlapping hills; where the little river threaded its untroubled course between daisied meadows and old orchards and red crumbling banks.

A broad-shouldered figure appeared in the window, and a man's step crunched the gravel of the path which Lady Mary had crossed.

"For once I have escaped, you see," she said, without turning round.

"They will not venture into the night air. Sometimes I think they will drive me mad--Isabella and Georgina."

"Mary!" cried a shrill voice from the drawing-room, "how can you be so imprudent! John, how can you allow her!"

John stepped back to the window. "It is very mild," he said. "Lady Mary likes the air."

There was a note of authority in his tone which somehow impressed Lady Belstone, who withdrew, muttering to herself, into the warm lamplight of the drawing-room.

Perhaps the two old ladies were to be pitied, too, as they sat together, but forlorn, sincerely shocked and uneasy at their sister-in-law's behaviour.

"Dear Timothy not dead three months, and she sitting out there in the night air, as he would never have permitted, talking and laughing; yes, I actually hear her laughing--with John."

"There is no telling what she may do _now_," said Miss Crewys, gloomily.

"I declare it is a judgment, Georgina. Why did Timothy choose to trust a perfect stranger--even though John is a cousin--with the care of his wife and son, and his estate, rather than his own sisters?"

"It was a gentleman's work," said Miss Crewys.

"Gentleman's fiddlesticks! Couldn't old Crawley have done it? I should hope he is as good a lawyer as young John any day," said Lady Belstone, tossing her head. "But I have often noticed that people will trust any chance stranger with the property they leave behind, rather than those they know best."

"Isabella," said Miss Crewys, "blame not the dead, and especially on a moonlight night. It makes my blood run cold."

"I am blaming n.o.body, Georgina; but I will say that if poor Timothy thought proper to leave everything else in the hands of young John, he might have considered that you and I had a better right to the Dower House than poor dear Mary, who, of course, must live with her son."

"I am far from wis.h.i.+ng or intending to leave my home here, Isabella,"

said Miss Crewys. "It is very different in your case. You forfeited the position of daughter of the house when you married. But I have always occupied my old place, and my old room."

This was a sore subject. On Lady Belstone's return as a widow, to the home of her fathers, she had been torn with anxiety and indecision regarding her choice of a sleeping apartment. Sentiment dictated her return to her former bedroom; but she was convinced that the married state required a domicile on the first floor. Etiquette prevailed, and she descended; but the eighty-year-old legs of Miss Crewys still climbed the nursery staircase, and she revenged herself for her inferior status by insisting, in defiance of old a.s.sociations, that her maid should occupy the room next to her own, which her sister had abandoned.

"For my part, I can sleep in one room as well as another, provided it be comfortable and _appropriate_," said Lady Belstone, with dignity.

"There are very pleasant rooms in the Dower House, and our great-aunts managed to live there in comfort, and yet keep an eye on their nephew here, as I have always been told. I don't know why we should object to doing the same. You have never tried being mistress of your own house, Georgina, but I can a.s.sure you it has its advantages; and I found them out as a married woman."

"A married woman has her husband to look after her," said Miss Crewys.

"It is very different for a widow."

"You are for ever throwing my widowhood in my teeth, Georgina," said Lady Belstone, plaintively. "It is not my fault that I am a widow. I did not murder the admiral."

"I don't say you did, Isabella," said Georgina, grimly; "but he only survived his marriage six months."

"It is nice to be silent sometimes," said Lady Mary.

"Does that mean that I am to go away?" said John, "or merely that I am not to speak to you?"

She laughed a little. "Neither. It means that I am tired of being scolded."

"I have wondered now and then," said John, deliberately, "why you put up with it?"