Peters Mother | Page 9

successful career.
The sisters, themselves well advanced in the seventies, spoke of him and thought of him as a young man; a boy who had succeeded in life in spite of small means, and an extravagant mother, to whom he had been obliged to sacrifice his patrimony. But though he carried his forty-five years lightly, John Crewys had left his boyhood very far behind him. His crisp dark hair was frosted on the temples; he stooped a little after the fashion of the desk-worker; he wore pince-nez; his manner, though alert, was composed and dignified. The restlessness, the nervous energy of youth, had been replaced by the calm confidence of middle age--of tested strength, of ripe experience.
On his side, John Crewys felt very kindly towards the venerable ladies, who represented to him all the womankind of his own race.
Both sisters possessed the family characteristics which he lacked. They were tall and surprisingly upright, considering the weight of years which pressed upon their thin shoulders. They retained the manners--almost the speech--of the eighteenth century, to which the grandmother who was responsible for their upbringing had belonged; and, with the exception of a very short experience of matrimony in Lady Belstone's case, they had always resided exclusively at Barracombe.
Lady Belstone, besides her widowed dignity, had the advantage of her sister in appearance, mainly because she permitted art, in some degree, to repair the ravages of time. A stiff toupet of white curls crowned the withered brow, below a widow's cap; and, when she smiled, which was not very often, a double row of pearls was not unpleasantly displayed. Miss Crewys had never succumbed to the temptations of worldly vanity. She scrupulously parted her scanty grey locks above her polished forehead, and cared not how wide the parting grew. If she wore a velvet bow upon her scalp, it was, as she truly said, for decency, and not for ornament; and further, she allowed her wholesome, ruddy cheeks to fall in, as her ever-lengthening teeth fell out. The frequent explanations which ensued, regarding the seniority of the widow, were a source of constant satisfaction to Miss Crewys, and vexation to her sister.
"You might be a hundred years old, Georgina," she would angrily lament.
"I very soon shall be a hundred years old, Isabella, if I live as long as my grandmother did," Miss Crewys would triumphantly reply. "It is surprising to me that a woman who was never good-looking at the best of times, should cling to her youth as you do."
"It is more surprising to me that you should let yourself go to rack and ruin, and never stretch out a hand to help yourself."
"I am what God made me," said the pious Georgina, "whereas you do everything but paint your face, Isabella; and I have little doubt but what you will come to that by the time you are eighty."
But though they disputed hotly on occasion the sisters generally preserved a united front before the world, and only argued, since argue they must, in the most polite and affectionate terms.
The firelight shed its cheerful glow over the laden tea-table, and was reflected in the silver urn, and the crimson and gold and blue of the Crown Derby tea-set. But the old ladies, though casting longing eyes in the direction of the teapot, religiously abstained from offering to touch it.
"No, John," said Miss Crewys, in a tone of exemplary patience; "I have made it a rule never to take upon myself any of the duties of hospitality in my dear brother's house, ever since he married,--odd as it may seem, when we remember how he used once to sit at this very table in his little bib and tucker, whilst Isabella poured out his milk, and I cut his bread and butter."
"We both make the rule, John," said Lady Belstone, mournfully, "or, of course, as the elder sister, I should naturally pour out the tea in our dear Lady Mary's absence."
"Of course, of course," said John Crewys.
"Forgive me, Isabella, but we have discussed this point before," said Miss Crewys. "Though I cannot deny, our cousin being, as 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