She had scarcely dared to acknowledge to herself how dear John Crewys had become to her, even though she knew that she rested thankfully upon the certainty of his love; that she trusted him in all things; that she was in utter sympathy with all his thoughts and words and ways.
Yet she had wished him to go, that she might be free to devote herself to her boy—to be very sure that she was not a light and careless mother, ready to abandon her son at the first call of a stranger.
And John Crewys had understood as another might not have understood. His clear head and great heart had divined her feelings, though perhaps he would never quite know how passionately grateful she was because he had divined them; because he had in no way fallen short of the man he had seemed to be.
She had sacrificed John to Peter; and John, who had shown so much wisdom and delicacy in leaving her alone with her son, was avenged; for only his absence could have made clear to her how he had grown into the heart she had guarded so jealously for Peter's sake.
She knew now that Peter's companionship made her more lonely than utter solitude.
The joie de vivre, which had distinguished her early days, and was inherent in her nature, had been quenched, to all appearance, many years since; but the spark had never died, and John had fanned it into brightness once more.
His strong hand had swept away the cobwebs that had been spun across her life; and the drooping soul had revived in the sunshine of his love, his comradeship, his warm approval.
Timidly, she had learnt to live, to laugh, to look about her, and dare utter her own thoughts and opinions, instead of falsely echoing those she did not share. Lady Mary had recovered her individuality; the serene consciousness of a power within herself to live up to the ideal her lover had conceived of her.
But now, in his absence, that confidence had been rudely shaken. She had come to perceive that she, who charmed others so easily, could not charm her sullen son. It was part of the penalty she paid for her quick-wittedness, that she could realize herself as Peter saw her, though she was unable to present herself before him in a more favourable light.
"I must be myself—or nobody," she thought despairingly. But Peter wanted her to be once more the meek, plainly dressed, low-spirited, silent being whom Sir Timothy had created; and who was not in the least like the original laughing, loving, joyous Mary Setoun.