Peter's Mother Part 9

Lady Mary, coming from the library with the letter in her hand, met her husband in the hall.

"Timothy!"

She looked at him wistfully. Her face was very pale as she gave him the letter. Sir Timothy took out his gla.s.ses, wiped them deliberately, and put them on.

"Never mind reading it. I can tell you in one word," she said, trembling with impatience. "My boy is sailing for South Africa to-morrow morning."

"I prefer," said Sir Timothy, "to read the letter for myself."

"Oh, do be quick!" she said, half under her breath.

But he read it slowly twice, and folded it. He was really thunderstruck. Peter was accustomed to write polite plat.i.tudes to his parent, and had presumably not intended that his letter to the canon should be actually read by Sir Timothy, when he had asked that the contents of it should be broken to him.

"Selfish, disobedient, headstrong, deceitful boy!" said Sir Timothy.

Lady Mary started. "How can you talk so!" Her gentle voice sounded almost fierce. "At least he has proved himself a man.' And he is right. It was a shame and a disgrace for him to stay at home, whilst his comrades did their duty. I say it a thousand times, though I am his mother."

Then she broke down. "Oh, Peter, my boy, my boy, how could you leave me without a word!"

"Perhaps this step was taken with your connivance after all?" said Sir Timothy, suspiciously. He could not follow her rapid changes of mood, and had listened resentfully to her defence of her son.

"Timothy!" said Lady Mary, trembling, "when have I ever been disloyal to you in word or deed?"

"Never, I hope," said Sir Timothy. His voice shook a little. "I do not doubt you for a moment, Mary. But you spoke with such strange vehemence, so unlike your usual propriety of manner."

She broke into a wild laugh which pained and astonished him.

"Did I? I must have forgotten myself for a moment."

"You must, indeed. Pray be calm. I understand that this must be a terrible shock to you."

"It is not a shock," said Lady Mary, defiantly. "I glory in it. I--I _wish_ him to go. Oh, Peter, my darling!"

She hid her face in her hands.

"It would be more to the purpose," said Sir Timothy, "to consider what is to be done."

"Could we stop him?" she cried eagerly, and then changed once more.

"No, no; I wouldn't if I could. He would never forgive me."

"Of course, we cannot stop him," said Sir Timothy. He raised his voice as he was wont when he was angry. Canon Birch, in the drawing-room, heard the loud threatening tones, and was thankful for the door which shut him from Sir Timothy's presence. "He has laid his plans for thwarting my known wishes too well. I do not know what might be said if we stopped him. I--I won't have my name made a laughing-stock. I am a Crewys, and the honour of the family lies in my hands. I can't give the world a right to suspect a Crewys of cowardice, by preventing his departure on active service. We have fought before--in a better cause."

"We won't discuss the cause," said Lady Mary, gently. When Sir Timothy began to shout, she always grew calm. "Then you will not telegraph to my cousin Ferries?"

"Ferries ought to have written to _me_, and not taken the word of a mere boy, like Peter," stormed Sir Timothy. "But the fact is, I never flattered Ferries as he expected; it is not my way to natter any one; and consequently he took a dislike to me. He must have known what my views are. I am sure he did it on purpose."

"It was natural he should believe Peter, and I don't think he knows you well enough to dislike you," said Lady Mary, simply. "He has only seen you twice, Timothy."

"That was evidently sufficient," said Sir Timothy, meaning to be ironical, and unaware that he was stating a plain fact. "I shall certainly not telegraph to tell him that my son has lied to him, well as Peter deserves that I should do so."

"Oh, don't, don't; you are so hard!" she said piteously. "If you'd only listened to him when he implored you to let him go, we could have made his last days at home all they should be. He's been hiding in London, poor Peter; getting his outfit by stealth, ashamed, whilst other boys are being _feted_ and praised by their people, proud of earning so early their right to be considered men. And--and he's only a boy. And he said himself, all's fair in love and war. Indeed, Timothy, it is an exceptional case."

"Mary, your weakness is painful, and your idolatry of Peter will bring its own punishment. The part of his deception that should pain you most is the want of heart he has displayed," said Sir Timothy, bitterly.

"And doesn't it?" she said, with a pathetic smile. "But one oughtn't to expect too much heart from a boy, ought one? It's--it's not a healthy sign. You said once you were glad he wasn't sentimental, like me."

"I should have wished him to exhibit proper feeling on proper occasions. His present triumph over my authority involves his departure to certain danger and possible death, without even affording us the opportunity of bidding him farewell. He is ready and willing to leave us thus."

Lady Mary uttered a stifled scream. "But I won't let him. How can you think his mother will let him go like that?"

"How can you help it?"

She pressed her trembling hands to her forehead. "I will think. There is a way. There are plenty of ways. I can drive to the junction--it's not much further than Brawnton--and catch the midnight express, and get to Southampton by daybreak. I know it can be done. Ash will look out the trains. Why do you look at me like that? You're not going to stop my going, are you? You're not going to _try_ and stop me, are you? For you won't succeed. Oh yes, I know I've been an obedient wife, Timothy. But I--I defied you once before for Peter's sake; when he was such a little boy, and you wanted to punish him--don't you remember?"

"Don't talk so, Mary," said Sir Timothy, almost soothingly. Her vehemence really alarmed and distressed him. "It is not like you to talk like this. You will be sorry--afterwards," he said; and his voice softened.

She responded instantly. She came closer to him, and took his big shaking hand into her gentle clasp.

"I should be sorry afterwards," she said, "and so would you. Even _you_ would be sorry, Timothy, if anything happened to Peter. I'll try and not make any more excuses for him, if you like. I know he's not a child now. He's almost a man; and men seem to me to grow harsh and unloving as they grow older. I try, now and then, to shut my eyes and see him as he once was; but all the time I know that the little boy who used to be Peter has gone away for ever and ever and ever. If he had died when he was little he would always have been my little boy, wouldn't he? But, thank G.o.d, he didn't die. He's going to be a great strong man, and a brave soldier, and--and all I've ever wanted him to be--when he's got over these wilful days of boyhood. But he mustn't go without his father's blessing and his mother's kiss."

"He has chosen to do so, Mary," said Sir Timothy, coldly.

She clung to him caressingly. "But you're going to forgive him before he goes, Timothy. There's no time to be angry before he goes. It may be too late to-morrow."

"It may be too late to-morrow," repeated Sir Timothy, heavily.

He resented, in a dull, self-pitying fas.h.i.+on, the fact that his wife's thoughts were so exclusively fixed on Peter, in her ignorance of his own more immediate danger.

"Don't think I'm blind to his faults," urged Lady Mary, "only I can laugh at them better than you can, because I _know_ all the while that at the very bottom of his heart he's only my baby Peter after all.

He's not--G.o.d bless him--he's _not_ the dreary, cold-blooded, priggish boy he sometimes pretends to be. Don't remember him like that now, Timothy. Think of that morning in June--that glorious, sunny morning in June, when you knelt by the open window in my room and thanked G.o.d because you had a son. Think of that other summer day when we couldn't bear even to look at the roses because little Peter was so ill, and we were afraid he was going back to heaven."

Her soft, rapid words touched Sir Timothy to a vague feeling of pity for her, and for Peter, and for himself. But the voice of the charmer, charm she never so wisely, had no power, after all, to dispel the dark cloud that was hanging over him.

The sorrow gave way to a keener anxiety. The calmness of mind which the great surgeon had prescribed--the placid courage, largely aided by dulness of imagination, which had enabled poor Sir Timothy to keep in the very background of his thoughts all apprehensions for the morrow--where were they?

He repressed with an effort the emotion which threatened to master him, and forced himself to be calm. When he spoke again his voice sounded not much less measured and pompous than usual.

"My dear, you are agitating yourself and me. Let us confine ourselves to the subject in hand."

Lady Mary dropped the unresponsive hand she held so warmly pressed between her own, and stepped back.

"Ah, forgive me!" she said in clear tones. "It's so difficult to--"

"To--?"

"To be exactly what you wish. To be always on guard. My feelings broke bounds for once."

"Calm yourself," said Sir Timothy. "And besides, so far as I am concerned, your pleading for Peter is unnecessary."