She clasped her hands against her bosom to still the panting and throbbing that, it seemed to her, must be evident outwardly, so strong was the emotion that shook her fragile form.
"Every one—but me," she said. "Does it never—strike you—Peter—that I, too, would like to live before I die? Whilst you are living your own life, why shouldn't I be living mine? Why shouldn't I go to London, and to Paris, and to Rome, and to Switzerland, or wherever I choose, now that you—you—have set me free?"
"Mother," said Peter, aghast, "are you gone mad?"
"Perhaps I am a little mad," said poor Lady Mary. "People go mad sometimes, who have been too long—in prison—they say." Then she saw his real alarm, and laughed till she cried. "I am not really mad," she said. "Do not be frightened, Peter. I—I was only joking."
"It is enough to frighten anybody when you go on like that," said Peter, relieved, but angry. "Talking of prison, and rushing about all over the world—I see no joke in that."
"Why should I be the only one who must not rush all over the world?" said Lady Mary.
"You must know perfectly well it would be preposterous," said Peter, sullenly, "to break up all your habits, and leave Barracombe and—and all of us—and start a fresh life—at your age. And if this is how you mock at me and all my plans, I'm sorry I ever took you into my confidence at all. I might have known I should repent it," he said; and a sob of angry resentment broke his voice.
"Indeed, I am not mocking at you, Peter," she said, sorely repentant and ashamed of her outburst. "Forgive me, darling! I see it was—not the moment. You do not understand. You are thinking only of Sarah, as is natural just now. It was not the moment for me to be talking of myself."
"You never used to be selfish," said Peter, thawing somewhat, as she threw her arms about him, and rested her head against his shoulder.
She laughed rather sadly. "But perhaps I am growing selfish—in my old age," said Peter's mother.