Peter's Mother. Mrs. Henry De La Pasture
with more attention to convenience than to architecture. The older portion was overshadowed by an imposing south front of white stone, shaded in summer by a prolific vine, which gave it a foreign appearance, further enhanced by rows of green shutters. It was screened from the north by the hill, and from the east by a dense wood. Myrtles, hydrangeas, magnolias, and orange-trees nourished out-of-doors upon the sheltered terraces cut in the red sandstone.
The woods of Barracombe stretched upwards to the skyline of the ridge behind the house, and were intersected by winding paths, bordered by hardy fuchsias and delicate ferns. A rushing stream dropped from height to height on its rocky course, and ended picturesquely and usefully in a waterfall close to the village, where it turned an old mill-wheel before disappearing into the Youle.
If the Squire of Barracombe overlooked from his terrace garden the inhabitants of the village and the tell-tale doorway of the much-frequented inn on the high-road below—his tenants in the valley and on the hillside were privileged in turn to observe the goings-in and comings-out of their beloved landlord almost as intimately; nor did they often tire of discussing his movements, his doings, and even his intentions.
His monotonous life provided small cause for gossip or speculation; but when the opportunity arose, it was eagerly seized.
In the failing light of a February afternoon a group of labourers assembled before the hospitably open door of the Crewys Arms.
"Him baint been London ways vor uppard of vivdeen year, tu my zurtain knowledge," said the old road-mender, jerking his empty pewter upwards in the direction of the terrace, where Sir Timothy's solid dark form could be discerned pacing up and down before his white house.
"Tis vur a ligacy. You may depend on't. 'Twas vur a ligacy last time," said a brawny ploughman.
"Volk doan't git ligacies every day," said the road-mender, contemptuously. "I zays 'tis Master Peter. Him du be just the age when byes du git drubblezum, gentle are zimple. I were drubblezum myself as a bye."
"'Twas tu fetch down this 'ere London jintle-man as comed on here wi' him to-day, I tell 'ee. His cousin, are zuch like. Zame name, anyways, var James Coachman zaid zo."
"Well, I telled 'ee zo," said the road-mender. "He's brart down the nextest heir, var tu keep a hold over Master Peter, and I doan't blame 'un."
"James Coachman telled me vive minutes zince as zummat were up. 'Ee zad such arders var tu-morrer morning, 'ee says, as niver 'ee had befar," said the landlord.
"Thart James Coachman weren't niver lit tu come here," said the road-mender, slyly. His toothless mouth extended into the perpetual smile which had earned him the nickname of "Happy Jack," over sixty years since, when he had been the prettiest lad in the parish.
"He only snicked down vor a drop o' brandy, vur he were clean rampin' mazed wi' tuth-ache. He waited till pretty nigh dusk var the ole ladies tu be zafe. 'Ee says they du take it by turns zo long as daylight du last, tu spy out wi' their microscopes, are zum zuch, as none of Sir Timothy's volk git tarking down this ways. A drop o' my zider might git tu their 'yeds," said the landlord, sarcastically, "though they drinks Sir Timothy's by the bucket-vull up tu Barracombe."
"'Tis stronger than yars du be," said Happy Jack. "There baint no warter put tu't, Joe Gudewyn. The warter-varl be tu handy vur yure brewin'."
"Zum of my customers has weak 'yeds, 'tis arl the better for they," said Goodwyn, calmly.
"Then charge 'em accardin', Mr. Landlord, charge 'em accardin', zays I. Warter doan't cost 'ee nart, du 'un?" said Happy Jack, triumphantly.
"'Ere be the doctor goin' on in's trap, while yu du be tarking zo," said the ploughman. "Lard, he du be a vast goer, be Joe Blundell."
"I drove zo vast as that, and vaster, when I kip a harse," said the road-mender, jealously. "'Ee be a young man, not turned vifty. I mind his vather and mother down tu Cullacott befar they was wed. Why doan't he go tu the war, that's what I zay?"
"Sir Timothy doan't hold wi' the war," said the landlord.
"Mar shame vor 'un," said Happy Jack. "But me and Zur Timothy, us made up our minds tu differ long ago. I'm arl vor vighting vurriners—Turks, Rooshans, Vrinchmen; 'tis arl one tu I."
"Why doan't 'ee volunteer thyself, Vather Jack? Thee baint turned nointy yit, be 'ee?" said a labourer, winking heavily, to convey to the audience that the suggestion was a humorous one.
"Ah, zo I wude, and shute Boers wi' the best on 'un. But the
Governmint baint got the zince tu ax me," said Happy Jack, chuckling.
"The young volk baint nigh zo knowing as I du be. Old Kruger wuden't
ha' tuke in I, try as 'un wude. I be zo witty as iver I can be."
Dr. Blundell saluted the group before the inn as he turned his horse to climb the steep road to Barracombe.
No breath of wind stirred, and the smoke from the cottage chimneys was lying low in the valley, hovering over the river in the still air.
A few primroses peeped out of sheltered corners under the hedge, and held out a timid promise of spring. The doctor followed the red road which wound between Sir Timothy's carefully enclosed plantations of young larch, passed the lodge gates, which were badly in need of repair, and entered the drive.
CHAPTER II
The justice-room was a small apartment in the older portion of Barracombe House; the low windows were heavily latticed, and faced west.
Sir Timothy sat before his writing-table, which was heaped with papers, directories, and maps; but he could no longer see to read or write. He made a stiff pretence of rising to greet the doctor as he entered, and then resumed his elbow-chair.
The rapidly failing daylight showed a large elderly, rather pompous gentleman, with a bald head, grizzled whiskers, and heavy plebeian features.
His face was smooth and unwrinkled, as the faces of prosperous and self-satisfied persons sometimes are, even after sixty, which was the age Sir Timothy had attained.
Dr. Blundell, who sat opposite his patient, was neither prosperous nor self-satisfied.
His dark clean-shaven face was deeply lined; care or over-work had furrowed his brow; and the rather unkempt locks of black hair which fell over it were streaked with white. From the deep-set brown eyes looked sadness and fatigue, as well as a great kindness for his fellow-men.
"I came the moment I received your letter," he said. "I had no idea you were back from London already."
"Dr. Blundell," said Sir Timothy, pompously, "when I took the very unusual step of leaving home the day before yesterday, I had resolved to follow the advice you gave me. I went to fulfil an appointment I had made with a specialist."
"With Sir James Power?"
"No, with a man named Herslett. You may have heard of him."
"Heard of him!" ejaculated Blundell. "Why, he's world-famous! A new man. Very clever, of course. If anything, a greater authority. Only I fancied you would perhaps prefer an older, graver man."
"No doubt I committed a breach of medical etiquette," said Sir
Timothy, in self-satisfied tones. "But I fancied you might have
written your version of the case to Power. Ah, you did? Exactly. But I was determined to have an absolutely unbiassed opinion."
"Well," said Blundell, gently.
"Well—I got it, that's all," said Sir Timothy. The triumph seemed to die out of his voice.
"Was it—unsatisfactory?"
"Not from your point of view," said the squire, with a heavy jocularity which did not move the doctor to mirth. "I'm