Peters Mother | Page 3

him, denounced him as a swashbuckler,
and made his own peace with the Commonwealth.
The Restoration, however, caused Farmer Timothy to welcome his
relative home in the warmest manner, and the brothers were not only
reconciled in their old age, but the elder made haste to transfer the
ownership of Barracombe to the younger, in terror lest his own
disloyalty should be rewarded by confiscation of the family acres.

A careless but not ungrateful monarch, rejoicing doubtless to see his
faithful soldier and servant so well provided for, bestowed on him a
baronetcy, a portrait by Vandyck of the late king, his father, and the
promise of a handsome sum of money, for the payment of which the
new baronet forebore to press his royal patron. His services thus
recognized and rewarded, old Sir Peter Crewys settled down amicably
with his brother at Barracombe.
Presumably there had always been an excellent understanding between
them. In any case no question of divided interests ever arose.
Sir Peter enlarged the old Elizabethan homestead to suit his new
dignity; built a picture-gallery, which he stocked handsomely with
family portraits; designed terrace gardens on the hillside after a fashion
he had learnt in Italy, and adopted his eldest nephew as his heir.
Old Timothy meanwhile continued to cultivate the land undisturbed,
disdaining newfangled ideas of gentility, and adhering in all ways to
the customs of his father. Presently, soldier and farmer also passed
away, and were laid to rest side by side on the banks of the Youle, in
the shadow of the square-towered church.
Before the house rolled rich meadows, open spaces of cornland, and
low-lying orchards. The building itself stood out boldly on a shelf of
the hill; successive generations of the Crewys family had improved or
enlarged it 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