Peters Mother | Page 8

keeping it dark, for
all that," said the canon, shaking his head regretfully.
"I take the responsibility," said the doctor, shortly. "As Sir Timothy's
physician, I forbid you to tell him."
"Is Sir Timothy ill?" The canon's light eyes grew rounder with alarm.
"He is to undergo a dangerous operation to-morrow morning."
"God bless my soul!"
"He desires this evening--possibly his last on earth--to be a calm and
unclouded one," said the doctor. "Respect his wishes, Birch, as you
would respect the wishes of a dying man."
"Do you mean he won't get over it?" said the canon, in a horrified
whisper.
"You always want the _t's_ crossed and the _i's_ dotted," said Blundell,
impatiently. "Of course there is a chance--his only chance. He's a d----d
plucky old fellow. I never thought to like Sir Timothy half so well as I
do at this moment."
"I hope I don't dislike any man," faltered the canon. "But--"
"Exactly," said the doctor, dryly.
"But what shall I do with Peter's letter?" said the unhappy recipient.
"Not one word to Sir Timothy. Agitation or distress of mind at such a
moment would be the worst thing in the world for him."
"But I can't let Peter sail without a word to his people. And his mother.
Good God, Blundell! Is Lady Mary to lose husband and son in one
day?"
"Lady Mary," said the doctor, bitterly, "is to be treated, as usual, like a

child, and told nothing of her husband's danger till it's over. As for
Peter--well, devoted mother as she is, she must be pretty well
accustomed by this time to the captious indifference of her spoilt boy.
She won't be surprised, though she may be hurt, that he should coolly
propose to set off without bidding her good-bye."
"Couldn't we tell her in confidence about Peter?" said the canon, struck
with a brilliant idea.
"Certainly not; she would fly to him at once, and leave Sir Timothy
alone in his extremity."
"Couldn't we tell her in confidence about Sir Timothy?"
"I have allowed Sir Timothy to understand that neither you nor I will
betray his secret."
"I'm no hand at keeping a secret," said the canon, unhappily.
"Nonsense, canon, nonsense," said Dr. Blundell, laying a friendly hand
on his shoulder. "No man in your profession, or in mine, ought to be
able to say that. Pull yourself together, hope for the best, and play your
part."
CHAPTER III
John Crewys looked round the hall at Barracombe House with curious,
interested eyes.
It was divided from the outer vestibule on the western side of the
building by a massive partition of dark oak, and it retained the solid
beams and panelled walls of Elizabethan days; but the oak had been
barbarously painted, grained and varnished. Only the staircase was so
heavily and richly carved, that it had defied the ingenuity of the comb
engraver. It occupied the further end of the hall, opposite the entrance
door, and was lighted dimly by a small heavily leaded, stained-glass
window. The floor was likewise black, polished with age and the
labour of generations. A deeply sunken nail-studded door led into a

low-ceiled library, containing a finely carved frieze and cornice, and an
oak mantelpiece, which John Crewys earnestly desired to examine
more closely; the shield-of-arms above it bore the figures of 1603, but
the hall itself was of an earlier date.
Parallel to it was the suite of lofty, modern, green-shuttered
reception-rooms, which occupied the south front of the house, and into
which an opening had been cut through the massive wall next the
chimney.
The character of the hall was, however, completely destroyed by the
decoration which had been bestowed upon it, and by the furniture and
pictures which filled it.
John Crewys looked round with more indignation than admiration at
the home of his ancestors.
In the great oriel window stood a round mahogany table, bearing a
bouquet of wax flowers under a glass shade. Cases of stuffed birds
ornamented every available recess; mahogany and horsehair chairs
were set stiffly round the walls at even distances. A heap of folded
moth-eaten rugs and wraps disfigured a side-table, and beneath it stood
a row of clogs and goloshes.
Round the walls hung full-length portraits of an early Victorian date.
The artist had spent a couple of months at Barracombe fifty years since,
and had painted three generations of the Crewys family, who were then
gathered together beneath its hospitable roof. His diligence had been
more remarkable than his ability. At any other time John Crewys would
have laughed outright at this collection of works of art.
But the air was charged with tragedy, and he could not laugh. His
seriousness commended him favourably, had he known it, to the two
old ladies, his cousins, Sir