She coloured deeply and leant away from his arm, looking up at him in distress.

"I could not help it, John," she said, very simply and naturally. "But oh, I don't know if I can--if I ought--to come to you any more."

"What do you mean?" said John.

"I--we--have been thinking of Peter as a boy--as the boy he was when he went away," she said, in low, hurrying tones; "but he has come home a man, and, in some ways, altogether different. He never used to want me; he used to think this place dull, and long to get away from it--and from me, for that matter. But now he's--he's wounded, as you know; maimed, my poor boy, for life; and--and he's counting on me to make his home for him. We never thought of that. He says it wouldn't be home without me; and he asked my pardon for being selfish in the past; my poor Peter! I used to fear he had such a little, cold heart; but I was all wrong, for when he was so far away he thought of me, and was sorry he hadn't loved me more. He's come home wanting to be everything to me, as I am to be everything to him. And I should have been so glad, so thankful, only two years ago. Oh, have I changed so much in two little years?"

John put her out of his arms very gently, and walked towards the window. His face was pale, but he still smiled, and his hazel eyes were bright.

"You're angry, John," said Lady Mary, very sweetly and humbly. "You've a right to be angry."

"I am not angry," he said gently. "I may be--a little--disappointed."

He did not look round.

"You know I was too happy," said poor Lady Mary. She sank into a chair, and covered her face with her hands. "It was wicked of me to be so happy, and now I'm going to be punished for it."

John's great heart melted within him. He came swiftly back to her and knelt by her side, and kissed the little hand she gave him.

"Too happy, were you?" he said, with a tenderness that rendered his deep voice unsteady. "Because you promised to marry me when Peter came home?"

"That, and--and everything else," she whispered. "Life seemed to have widened out, and grown so beautiful. All the dull, empty hours were filled. Our music, our reading, our companionship, our long walks and talks, our letters to each other--all those pleasures which you showed me were at once so harmless and so delightful. And as if that were not enough--came love. Such love as I had only dreamed of--such understanding of each other's every thought and word, as I did not know was possible between man and woman--or at least"--she corrected herself sadly--"between any man and a woman--of my age."

"You talk of your age," said John, smiling tenderly, "as though it were a crime."

"It is not a crime, but it is a tragedy," said Lady Mary. "Age is a tragedy to every woman who wants to be happy."

"No more, surely, than to every man who loves his work, and sees it slipping from his grasp," said John, slowly. "It's a tragedy we all have to face, for that matter."

"But so much later," said Lady Mary, quickly.

"I don't see why women should leave off wanting to be happy any sooner than men," he said stoutly.

"But Nature does," she answered.

John's eyes twinkled. "For my part, I am thankful to fate, which caused me to fall in love with a woman only ten years my junior, instead of with a girl young enough to be my daughter. I have gained a companion as well as a wife; and marvellously adaptive as young women are, I am conceited enough to think my ideas have travelled beyond the ideas of most girls of eighteen; and I am not conceited enough to suppose the girl of eighteen would not find me an old fogey very much in the way. Let boys mate with girls, say I, and men with women."

Lady Mary smiled in spite of herself. "You know, John, you would argue entirely the other way round if you happened to be in love with--Sarah," she said.

"To be sure," said John; "it's my trade to argue for the side which retains my services. I am your servant, thank Heaven, and not Sarah's.

And I have no intention of quitting your service," he added, more gravely. "We have settled the question of the future."

"The empty future that suddenly grew so bright," said Lady Mary, dreamily. "Do you remember how you talked of--Italy?"

"Where we shall yet spend our honeymoon," said John. "But I believe you liked better to hear of my shabby rooms in London which you meant to share."

"Of course," she said simply. "I knew I should bring you so little money."

"And you thought barristers always lived from hand to mouth, and made no allowance for my having got on in my profession."

"Ah! what did it matter?"

"I think you will find it makes just a little difference," John said, smiling.

"Outside circ.u.mstances make less difference to women than men suppose," said Lady Mary. "They are, oh, so willing to be pampered in luxury; and, oh, so willing to fly to the other extreme, and do without things."

"Are they really?" said John, rather dryly.

He glanced at the little, soft, white hand he held, and smiled. It looked so unfitted to help itself.

Lady Mary was resting in her armchair, her delicate face still flushed with emotion. A transparent purple shade beneath the blue eyes betrayed that she had been weeping; but she was calmed by John's strong and tranquil presence. The shady room was cool and fragrant with the scent of heliotrope and mignonette.

The band had reached a level plateau below the terrace garden, and was playing martial airs to encourage stragglers in the procession, and to give the princ.i.p.al inhabitants of Youlestone time to arrive, and to regain their wind after the steep ascent.

Every time a batch of new arrivals recognized Peter's tall form on the terrace, a fresh burst of cheering rose.

From all sides of the valley, hurrying figures could be seen approaching Barracombe House.

The noise and confusion without seemed to increase the sense of quiet within, and the sounds of the gathering crowd made them feel apart and alone together as they had never felt before.

"So all our dreams are to be shattered," said John, quietly, "because your prayer has been granted, and Peter has come home?"

"If you could have heard all he said," she whispered sadly. "He has come home loving me, trusting me, dependent on me, as he has never been before, since his babyhood. Don't you see--that even if it breaks my heart, I couldn't fail my boy--just now?"

There was a pause, and she regarded him anxiously; her hands were clasped tightly together in the effort to still their trembling, her blue eyes looked imploring.

John knew very well that it lay within his powers to make good his claim upon that gentle heart, and enforce his will and her submission to it. But the strongest natures are those which least incline to tyranny; and he had already seen the results of coercion upon that bright and joyous, but timid nature. He knew that her love for him was of the fanciful, romantic, high-flown order; and as such, it appealed to every chivalrous instinct within him. Though his love for her was, perhaps, of a different kind, he desired her happiness and her peace of mind, as strongly as he desired her companionship and the sympathy which was to brighten his lonely life. He was silent for a moment, considering how he should act. If love counselled haste, common sense suggested patience.

"I couldn't disappoint him now. You see that, John?" said the anxious, gentle voice.

"I am afraid I do see it, Mary," he said. "Our secret must remain our secret for the present."

"G.o.d bless you, John!" said Lady Mary, softly. "You always understand."

"I am old enough, at least, to know that happiness cannot be attained by setting duty aside," he said, as cheerfully as he could.

There was a pause in the music outside, and a voice was heard speaking.

John rose and straightened himself.

"Have you decided what is to be done--what we had best do?" she said timidly.

"I am going to prove that a lover can be devoted, and yet perfectly reasonable; in defiance of all tradition to the contrary," he said gaily. "I shall return to town as soon as I can decently get away--probably to-morrow."

She uttered a cry. "You are going to leave me?"

"I must give place to Peter."

She came to his side, and clung to his arm as though terrified by the success of her own appeal.