Peter's Mother. Mrs. Henry De La Pasture
he is, a lawyer, 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 next sister succeeds to her place."
"I should suppose that might be the case," John, bowing politely in the 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 have always maintained, and always shall, that when the married sister comes back widowed to the home of her fathers, the privileges of birth are 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 he could.
He welcomed thankfully the timely interruption of an opening door and the entrance of Canon Birch and the doctor.
At the same moment, from the archway which supported the great oak staircase, the butler entered, carrying lights.
"Is her ladyship not yet returned from her walk, Ash?" asked Lady
Belstone, with affected surprise.
"Her ladyship came in some time ago, my lady, and went to see Sir Timothy. She left word she was gone upstairs to change her walking things, and would be down directly."
The sisters greeted the canon with effusion, and Dr. Blundell with frigid civility.
John Crewys shook hands with both gentlemen.
"I am sorry I cannot offer you tea, Canon Birch, until my sister-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 quarter of an hour or more for our tea. We do not complain," said Lady Belstone.
John Crewys began to feel a little sorry for Lady Mary.
As the sisters appeared inclined to devote themselves to their clerical visitor rather exclusively, he drew near the recess to which Dr. 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 not much given to entertaining visitors. I have never, in fact, seen any of them but once before. That was at Sir Timothy's wedding, twenty years ago."
"Barely nineteen," said the doctor.
"I believe it was nineteen, since you remind me," said John, slightly astonished. "I remember thinking Sir Timothy a lucky man."
"I dare say he looked much about the same as he does now," said the doctor.
"Well," John said, "perhaps a little slimmer, you know. Not much. An iron-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 age will ever be known to Sir Timothy." He paused, noting the surprised expression of John's face, and added apologetically, "I am a native of these parts. I have known him all my life."
"And I am—only a stranger," said John. He hesitated, and lowered his voice. "You know why I came?"
"Yes, I know. I am very glad you did come," said the doctor. His tone changed. "Here is Lady Mary," he said.
John Crewys was struck by the sudden illumination of Dr. Blundell's plain, dark face. The deeply sunken eyes glowed, and the sadness and weariness of their expression were dispelled.
His eyes followed the direction of the doctor's gaze, and his own face immediately reflected the doctor's interest.
Lady Mary was coming down the wide staircase, in the light of a group of wax candles held by a tall bronze angel.
She was dressed with almost rigid simplicity, and her abundant light-brown hair was plainly parted. She was pale and even sad-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 a sensation that was not entirely pity, because those eyes—the bluest, he remembered, that he had ever seen—brought back to him, suddenly and vividly, the memory of the exquisitely fresh and lovely girl who had married her elderly guardian nineteen years since.
He recollected that some members of the Crewys family had agreed that Lady Mary Setoun had done well for herself, "a penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree;" for Sir Timothy was rich. Others had laughed, and said that Sir Timothy was determined that his heirs should be able to boast some of the bluest blood in Scotland on their mother's side—but that he might have waited a little longer for his bride.
She was so young, barely seventeen years old, and so very lovely, that John Crewys had felt indignant with Sir Timothy, whose appearance and manner did not attract him. He was reminded that the bride owed almost everything she possessed in the world to her husband, but he was not pacified.
The glance of the gay blue eyes—the laugh on the curved young mouth—the glint of gold on the sunny brown hair—had played havoc with John's honest heart. He had not a penny in the world at that time, and could not have married her if he would; but from Lady Mary's wedding he carried away in his breast an image—an ideal—which had perhaps helped to keep him unwed during these later years of his successful career.
Why did she look so sad?
John's kind heart had melted somewhat towards Sir Timothy, when the poor gentleman had sought him in his chambers on the previous day, and appealed to him for help in his extremity. He was sorry for his cousin, in spite of the pompousness and arrogance with which Sir Timothy unconsciously did his best to alienate even those whom he most desired to attract.
He had come to Devonshire, at great inconvenience to himself, in response to that appeal; and in his hurry, and his sympathy for his cousin's trouble, he had scarcely given a thought to the momentary romance connected with his first and only meeting with Lady Mary. Yet now, behold, after nineteen years, the look on her sweet face thrilled his middle-aged bosom as it had thrilled his young manhood. John smiled or thought he smiled, as he came forward to be presented once more to Sir Timothy's wife; but he was, nevertheless, rather pleased to find that he had not outgrown the power of being thus romantically attracted.
"I hope I'm not late," said the soft voice. "You see, no one expected Sir 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; I remember you quite well," said Lady Mary. She came forward and held out two welcoming hands to her visitor.
John Crewys bowed over those little white hands, and became suddenly conscious that his vague, romantic sentiment had given place to a very real emotion—an almost passionate anxiety to shield one so fair and gentle from the trouble which was threatening her, and of which, as he knew, she was perfectly unconscious.
The warmth of her impulsive welcome did not, of course, escape the keen eyes of the sisters-in-law, which, in such matters as these, were quite 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 said that 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 excellent reason, my love, for the delay."
Lady Mary's blue eyes, glancing at John, said quite plainly and beseechingly to his understanding, "They are old, and rather cranky, but they don't mean to be unkind. Do forgive them;" and John smiled reassuringly.
"I'm afraid I haven't much excuse to offer," she said ingenuously.