Peter's Mother Part 48

"What have you done to my boy," said Lady Mary, half laughing and half indignant, "that your lightest word is to be his law? And oh, Sarah"--her tone grew wistful--"it is strange--even though he loves you, that you should understand him better than I, who would lay down my life for him."

"It's very easy to see why," said Sarah, calmly. The deep contralto music of her voice contrasted oddly with her matter-of-fact manner and words. "It's just that Peter and I are made of common clay, and that you are not. So, of course, we understand each other. I don't mean to say 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 spoke quite cheerfully--"anybody would quarrel with Peter. But you and he are a little like Aunt Elizabeth and me. _She_ wants me to behave like a _grande dame_, and to know exactly who everybody is, and treat them accordingly, and be never too much interested in anything, but never bored; and always look beautiful, and, above all, _appropriate_. And _I_--would rather be taking the dogs for a run on the moors, in a short 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 that matter;--than be the prettiest girl in London, and going to a State ball or the opera. You see, I've tried both kinds of life now, and I know which I like best. And--and flirting with people is pleasant enough 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 at sentiment," said Sarah, with great truth.

"And Peter?" asked Lady Mary, gently.

"You wanted Peter to be a--a n.o.ble kind of person, a great statesman, or something of that sort, didn't you?" Her soft lips caressed Lady Mary's hand apologetically. "To be fond of reading and poetry, and all sorts of things; and _he_ wanted to shoot rabbits and go fis.h.i.+ng. But, of course, he couldn't help _knowing_ you wanted him to be something he 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 are saying."

"It's true, though I say it so badly; and I know it, because, as I tell you, Peter and I are just the same sort at heart. I've been teasing him, pretending to be a worldling, but foreign travel and entertaining 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 my part well while it all lasted; but you know it wasn't so much me as my looks 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 in taking Peter in either; for he _couldn't_ believe I could really think any sort of life worth living but the dear old life down here, which he and I love best in the world, in our heart of hearts."

The twinkling, frosty blue points of starlight glittered in the cloudless vault of heaven, above the moonlit stillness of the valley.

The clear-cut shadows of the balcony and the stone urns fell across the cold paths and whitened gra.s.s 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 the interview we were not to interrupt is over?" he said, good-humouredly.

"Surely it is not very prudent of Miss Sarah to venture out-of-doors in 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 across the moonlit terrace, into the deep shadow of the ilex grove; and the boy was by her side before John could reach the window she had just quitted.

"Oh, is it you, Peter?" said Miss Sarah, looking over her shoulder. "I was looking for you. I have put on my things. It is getting late, and I 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 you particularly wanted to say--you know how tiresome she is, keeping as close as she can, to listen to every word--why, it would be better to say 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 should go mad, making conversation with John Crewys." Peter was honestly unaware that it was John who had made the conversation. "Has Lady Tintern come to take you away, Sarah? And why did she call on my mother this afternoon, the very moment she arrived?"

"Your mother would be the proper person to tell you that. How should I know?" said Sarah, reprovingly. "Have you asked her?"

"How can I ask her?" said Peter. His voice trembled. "I've not spoken to her once--except before other people--since John Crewys told me--what I told you this afternoon. I've scarcely seen any one since I left 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 you think 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. At the very bottom of her heart there lurked a remnant of her childish admiration for him, which would, perhaps, never quite be extinguished.

The boy who got into sc.r.a.pes, and was thrashed by his father, and who did not mind; the boy who vaulted over fences she had to climb or creep through; who went fis.h.i.+ng, and threw a fly with so light and sure a hand, and filled his basket, whilst she wound her line about her skirts, and caught her hook, and whipped the stream in vain.

He had climbed a tall fir-tree once, and brought down in safety a weeping, shame-stricken little girl with a red pigtail, whose daring had suddenly failed her; and he had gone up the tree himself like a squirrel afterwards, and fetched her the nest she coveted. Nor did he ever taunt her with her cowardice nor revert to his own exploit; but this was because Peter forgot the whole adventure in an hour, though Sarah 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 the opposite side of the hill, which echoed through the valley; she knew what those sounds meant to Peter--the boy who had shot so straight and true, and who would never shoulder a gun any more.

"I don't see why you should be so miserable," she said, as lightly as she could; but there were tears in her eyes, she was so sorry for Peter.

"I dare say you don't," said Peter, bitterly. "n.o.body has ever made a fool of you, no doubt. A wretched, self-confident fool, who gave you his whole heart to trample in the dust. I suppose I ought to have known you were only--playing with me--as you said--a wretched object as I am now, but--"

"An object!" cried Sarah, so anxious to stem the tide of his reproaches that she scarce knew what she was saying, "which appeals to 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 leant forward and kissed his empty sleeve.

Peter trembled at her touch.

"It is--because you are sorry for me," he said hoa.r.s.ely.

"Sorry!" said Sarah, scornfully; "I glory in it." Then she suddenly began 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 stupid old valley, or with--with any one but you. And I am rightly punished if 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 the banqueting hall, and Lady Mary stood before the open hearth, absently watching 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 the cold breath of the October night, appeared in the doorway.

"Peter is in there--waiting for you," she whispered, blus.h.i.+ng.

John Crewys rose from the piano, and came forward and held out his hand 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 for the darkness, which hid her face from her son.

"Peter!"

"Mother!"

She clung to her boy, and a kiss pa.s.sed between them which said all that was in their hearts that night--of appeal--of understanding--of forgiveness--of the love of mother and son.

And no foolish words of explanation were ever uttered to mar the gracious memory of that sacred reconciliation.

THE END