"My pretty Sarah—my darling!"
"I'm sure it's only because he's your son," said Sarah, vehemently; "I've always wanted to be your child. What's the use of pretending I haven't? Think what a time poor mamma used to give me, and what an angel of goodness you were to the poor little black sheep who loved you so."
Sarah's white dress, shining in the moonlight, caught the attention of
John Crewys, through the open window. He paused in his walk outside.
Peter's voice uttered something, and the two dark figures passed
slowly on.
"They won't interrupt us," said Sarah, serenely. "I told Peter at dinner that I wanted to talk to you, and that he was to go and smoke with Mr. John, and behave as if nothing had happened. He said he hadn't spoken to him since this morning. He is all agog to know what Lady Tintern came for. But he won't dare to come and interrupt."
"What have you done to my boy," said Lady Mary, half laughing and half indignant, "that your lightest word is to be his law? And oh, Sarah"—her tone grew wistful—"it is strange—even though he loves you, that you should understand him better than I, who would lay down my life for him."
"It's very easy to see why," said Sarah, calmly. The deep contralto music of her voice contrasted oddly with her matter-of-fact manner and words. "It's just that Peter and I are made of common clay, and that you are not. So, of course, we understand each other. I don't mean to say that we don't quarrel pretty often. I dare say we always shall. I am good-tempered, but I like my own way; and, besides"—she spoke quite cheerfully—"anybody would quarrel with Peter. But you and he are a little like Aunt Elizabeth and me. She wants me to behave like a grande dame, and to know exactly who everybody is, and treat them accordingly, and be never too much interested in anything, but never bored; and always look beautiful, and, above all, appropriate. And I—would rather be taking the dogs for a run on the moors, in a short skirt and big boots; or up at four in the morning otter-hunting; or out with the hounds; or—or—digging in the garden, for that matter;—than be the prettiest girl in London, and going to a State ball or the opera. You see, I've tried both kinds of life now, and I know which I like best. And—and flirting with people is pleasant enough in its way, but it gives you a kind of sick feeling afterwards, which hunting never does. I don't think I'm really much of a hand at sentiment," said Sarah, with great truth.
"And Peter?" asked Lady Mary, gently.
"You wanted Peter to be a—a noble kind of person, a great statesman, or something of that sort, didn't you?" Her soft lips caressed Lady Mary's hand apologetically. "To be fond of reading and poetry, and all sorts of things; and he wanted to shoot rabbits and go fishing. But, of course, he couldn't help knowing you wanted him to be something he wasn't, and never could be, and didn't want to be."
"Oh, Sarah!" said poor Lady Mary. "But—yes, it is true what you are saying."
"It's true, though I say it so badly; and I know it, because, as I tell you, Peter and I are just the same sort at heart. I've been teasing him, pretending to be a worldling, but foreign travel and entertaining in London are just about as unsuited to me as to Peter. I—I'm glad"—she uttered a quick, little sob—"that I—I played my part well while it all lasted; but you know it wasn't so much me as my looks that did it. And because I didn't care, I was blunt and natural, and they thought it chic. But it wasn't chic; it was that I really didn't care. And I don't think I've ever quite succeeded in taking Peter in either; for he couldn't believe I could really think any sort of life worth living but the dear old life down here, which he and I love best in the world, in our heart of hearts."