Peters Mother | Page 2

they have been rarely met.
My only knowledge of America has been gleaned from my observation
of these, and from reading. As it happens, the favourite books of my
childhood were, with few exceptions, American.
Partly from association and partly because I count it the most truly
delightful story of its kind that ever was written, "Little Women" has
always retained its early place in my affections. "Meg," "Jo," "Beth,"
and "Amy" are my oldest and dearest friends; and when I think of them,
it is hard to believe that America could be a land of strangers to me
after all. I confess to a weakness for the "Wide, Wide World" and a
secret passion for "Queechy." I loved "Mr. Rutherford's Children," and
was always interested to hear "What Katy Did," Whilst the very
thought of "Melbourne House" thrills me with recollections of the joy I
experienced therein.
But this is all by the way; and for the egotism which is, I fear me,
displayed in this foreword, I can but plead, not only the difficulty of
writing a preface at all, when one has no personal inclination that way,
but the nervousness which must beset a writer who is directly
addressing not a tried and friendly public, but an unknown, and, it may
be, less easily pleased and more critical audience. It appears to me that
it would be a simpler thing to write another book; and I would rather do

so. I can only hope that some of the readers of "Peter's Mother," if she
is so happy as to find favour in American eyes, would rather I did so
too; in I which case I shall very joyfully try to gratify their wishes, and
my own.
BETTY DE LA PASTURE.

PETER'S MOTHER
CHAPTER I
Above Youlestone village, overlooking the valley and the river, and the
square-towered church, stood Barracombe House, backed by
Barracombe Woods, and owned by Sir Timothy Crewys, of
Barracombe.
From the terrace before his windows Sir Timothy could take a
bird's-eye view of his own property, up the river and down the river;
while he also had the felicity of beholding the estate of his most
important neighbour, Colonel Hewel, of Hewelscourt, mapped out
before his eyes, as plainly visible in detail as land on the opposite side
of a narrow valley must always be.
He cast no envious glances at his neighbour's property. The Youle was
a boundary which none could dispute, and which could only be
conveniently crossed by the ferry, for the nearest bridge was seven
miles distant, at Brawnton, the old post-town.
From Brawnton the coach still ran once a week for the benefit of the
outlying villages, and the single line of rail which threaded the valley
of the Youle in the year 1900 was still a novelty to the inhabitants of
this unfrequented part of Devon.
Sir Timothy sometimes expressed a majestic pity for Colonel Hewel,
because the railway ran through some of his neighbour's best fields;
and also because Hewelscourt was on the wrong side of the river--faced

due north--and was almost buried in timber. But Colonel Hewel was
perfectly satisfied with his own situation, though sorry for Sir Timothy,
who lived within full view of the railway, but was obliged to drive
many miles round by Brawnton Bridge in order to reach the station.
The two gentlemen seldom met. They lived in different parishes, and
administered justice in different directions. Sir Timothy's dignity did
not permit him to make use of the ferry, and he rarely drove further
than Brawnton, or rode much beyond the boundaries of his own estate.
He cared only for farming, whilst Colonel Hewel was devoted to sport.
The Crewys family had been Squires of Barracombe, cultivating their
own lands and living upon them contentedly, for centuries before the
Hewels had ever been heard of in Devon, as all the village knew very
well; wherefore they regarded the Hewels with a mixture of
good-natured contempt and kindly tolerance. The contempt was
because Hewelscourt had been built within the memory of living man,
and only two generations of Hewels born therein; the tolerance because
the present owner, though not a wealthy man, was as liberal in his
dealings as their squire was the reverse.
* * * * *
In the reign of Charles I., one Peter Crewys, an adventurous younger
son of this obscure but ancient Devonshire family, had gained local
notoriety by raising a troop of enthusiastic yeomen for his Majesty's
service; subsequently his own reckless personal gallantry won wider
recognition in many an affray with the parliamentary troops; and on the
death of his royal master, Peter Crewys was forced to fly the country.
He joined King Charles II. in his exile, whilst his prudent elder brother
severed all connection with