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 Timothy's half-sisters, who were seated beside the great log fire, and who regarded him with approving eyes. For their stranger cousin had that extreme gentleness and courtesy of manner and regard, which sometimes accompanies unusual strength, whether of character or of person.

It was a pity, old Lady Belstone whispered to her spinster sister, that John was not a Crewys, for he had a remarkably fine head, and had he been but a little taller and slimmer, would have been a credit to the family.

Certainly John was not a Crewys. He possessed neither grey eyes, nor a large nose, nor the height which should be attained by every man and woman bearing that name, according to the family record.

But though only of middle size, and rather square-shouldered, he was, nevertheless, a distinguished-looking man, with a finely shaped head and well-cut features. Clean shaven, as a great lawyer ought to be, with a firm and rather satirical mouth, a broad brow, and bright hazel eyes set well apart and twinkling with humour. No doubt John's appearance had been a factor in his 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 is rather a nice point," said John Crewys, as gravely as he could.

He welcomed thankfully the timely interruption of an opening door and the entrance of Canon Birch and the doctor.

At the same moment, from the archway which supported the great oak staircase, the butler entered, carrying lights.

"Is her ladyship not yet returned from her walk, Ash?" asked Lady
Belstone, with affected surprise.

"Her ladyship came in some time ago, my lady, and went to see Sir Timothy. She left word she was gone upstairs to change her walking things, and would be down directly."

The sisters greeted the canon with effusion, and Dr. Blundell with frigid civility.

John Crewys shook hands with both gentlemen.

"I am sorry I cannot offer you tea, Canon Birch, until my sister-in-law comes down," said Miss Crewys.

"Our dear Lady Mary is so very unpunctual," said Lady Belstone.

"I dare say something has detained her," said the canon, good-humouredly.

"It often happens that my sister and myself are kept waiting a quarter of an hour or more for our tea. We do not complain," said Lady Belstone.

John Crewys began to feel a little sorry for Lady Mary.

As the sisters appeared inclined to devote themselves to their clerical visitor rather exclusively, he drew near the recess to which Dr. Blundell had retired, and joined him in the oriel window.

"Have you never been here before?" asked the doctor, rather abruptly.

"Never," said John Crewys, smiling. "I understand my cousins are not much given to entertaining visitors. I have never, in fact, seen any of them but once before. That was at Sir Timothy's wedding, twenty years ago."

"Barely nineteen," said the doctor.

"I believe it was nineteen, since you remind me," said John, slightly astonished. "I remember thinking Sir Timothy a lucky man."

"I dare say he looked much about the same as he does now," said the doctor.

"Well," John said, "perhaps a little slimmer, you know. Not much. An iron-grey, middle-aged-looking man. No; he has changed very little."

"He was born elderly, and he will die elderly," said the doctor, shortly. "Neither the follies of youth nor the softening of age will ever be known to Sir Timothy." He paused, noting the surprised expression of John's face, and added apologetically, "I am a native of these parts. I have known him all my life."

"And I am—only a stranger," said John. He hesitated, and lowered his voice. "You know why I came?"

"Yes, I know. I am very glad you did come," said the doctor. His tone changed. "Here is Lady Mary," he said.

John Crewys was struck by the sudden illumination of Dr. Blundell's plain, dark face. The deeply sunken eyes glowed, and the sadness and weariness of their expression were dispelled.

His eyes followed the direction of the doctor's gaze, and his own face immediately reflected the doctor's interest.

Lady Mary was coming down the wide staircase, in the light of a group of wax candles held by a tall bronze angel.

She was dressed with almost rigid simplicity, and her abundant light-brown hair was plainly parted. She was pale and even sad-looking, but beautiful still; with a delicate and regular profile, soft blue eyes, and a sweet, rather tremulous mouth.

John's heart seemed to contract within him, and then beat fast with a sensation that was not entirely pity, because those eyes—the bluest, he remembered, that he had ever seen—brought back to him, suddenly and vividly, the memory of the exquisitely fresh and lovely girl who had married her elderly guardian nineteen years since.

He recollected that some members of the Crewys family had agreed that Lady Mary Setoun had done well for herself, "a penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree;" for Sir Timothy was rich. Others had laughed, and said that Sir Timothy was determined that his heirs should be able to boast some of the bluest blood in Scotland on their mother's side,—but that he might have waited a little longer for his bride.

She was so young, barely seventeen years old, and so very lovely, that John Crewys had felt indignant with Sir Timothy, whose appearance and manner did not attract him. He was reminded that the bride owed almost everything she possessed in the world to her husband, but he was not pacified.

The glance of the gay blue eyes,—the laugh on the curved young mouth,—the glint of gold on the sunny brown hair,—had played havoc with John's honest heart. He had not a penny in the world at that time, and could not have married her if he would; but from Lady Mary's wedding he carried away in his breast an image—an ideal—which had perhaps helped to keep him unwed during these later years of his successful career.

Why did she look so sad?

John's kind heart had melted somewhat towards Sir Timothy, when the poor gentleman had sought him in his chambers on the previous day, and appealed to him for help in his extremity. He was sorry for his cousin, in spite of the pompousness and arrogance with which Sir Timothy unconsciously did his best to alienate even those whom he most desired to attract.

He had come to Devonshire, at great inconvenience to himself, in response to that appeal; and in his hurry, and his sympathy for his cousin's trouble, he had scarcely given a thought to the momentary romance connected with his first and only meeting with Lady Mary. Yet now, behold, after nineteen years, the look on her sweet face thrilled his middle-aged bosom as it had thrilled his young manhood. John smiled or thought he smiled, as he came forward to be presented once more to Sir Timothy's wife; but he was, nevertheless, rather pleased to find that he had not outgrown the power of being thus romantically attracted.

"I hope I'm not late," said the soft voice. "You see, no one expected Sir Timothy to come home so soon, and I was out. Is that Cousin John? We met once before, at my wedding. You have not changed a bit; I remember you quite well," said Lady Mary. She came forward and held out two welcoming hands to her visitor.

John Crewys bowed over those little white hands, and became suddenly conscious that his vague, romantic sentiment had given place to a very real emotion—an almost passionate anxiety to shield one so fair and gentle from the trouble which was threatening her, and of which, as he knew, she was perfectly unconscious.

The warmth of her impulsive welcome did not, of course, escape the keen eyes of the sisters-in-law, which, in such matters as these, were quite undimmed by age.

"Why didn't somebody pour out tea?" said Lady Mary.

"We know your rights, Mary," said Miss Crewys. "Never shall it be said that dear Timothy's sisters ousted his wife from her proper place, because she did not happen to be present to occupy it."

"Besides," said Lady Belstone, "you have, no doubt, some excellent reason, my love, for the delay."

Lady Mary's blue eyes, glancing at John, said quite plainly and beseechingly to his understanding, "They are old, and rather cranky, but they don't mean to be unkind. Do forgive them;" and John smiled reassuringly.

"I'm afraid I haven't much excuse to offer," she said ingenuously. "I was out late, and I tired myself; and then I heard Sir Timothy had come back, so I went to see him. And then I made haste to change my dress, and it took a long time—and that's all."

The three gentlemen laughed forgivingly at this explanation, and the two ladies exchanged shocked glances.

"Our cousin John did his best to entertain us, and we him," said Lady
Belstone, stiffly.

"His best—and how good that must be!" said Lady Mary, with pretty spirit. "The great counsel whose eloquence is listened to with breathless attention in crowded courts, and read at every breakfast-table in England."

"That is a very delightful picture of the life of a briefless barrister," said John Crewys, smiling.

"Mary," said Miss Crewys, in lowered tones of reproof, "I understood that divorce cases, unhappily, occupied the greater part of our cousin John's attention."

"We've heard of you, nevertheless—we've heard of you, Mr. Crewys," said the canon, nervously interposing, "even in this out-of-the-way corner of the west."

"But there is one breakfast-table, at least, in England, where divorce cases are not perused, and that is my brother Timothy's breakfast-table," said Lady Belstone, very distinctly.

John hastened to fill up the awkward pause which ensued, by a reference to the beauty of the hall.

"I'm afraid we don't live up to our beautiful old house," said Lady Mary, shaking her head. "There are some lovely things stored away in the gallery upstairs, and some beautiful pictures hanging there, including the Vandyck, you know, which Charles II. gave to old Sir Peter, your cavalier ancestor. But the gallery is almost a lumber-room, for the floor is too unsafe to walk upon. And down here, as you see, we are terribly Philistine."

"This hall was furnished by my grandmother for her son's marriage," said Miss Crewys.

"And she sent all your great-grandmother's treasures to the attics," said Lady Mary, with rather a wilful intonation. "I always long to bring them to light again, and to make this place livable; but my husband does not like change."

"Dear Timothy is faithful to the past," said Miss Crewys, majestically.

"I wish old Lady Crewys had been as faithful," said Lady Mary, shrugging her shoulders.

"Young people always like changes," said Lady Belstone, more leniently.

"Young people!" said Lady Mary, with a rather pathetic smile. "John will think you are laughing at me. Am I to be young still at five-and-thirty?"

"To be sure," said John, "unless you are going to be so unkind as to make a man only ten years your senior feel elderly."

Miss Crewys interposed with a simple statement. "In my day, the age of a lady was never referred to in polite conversation. Least of all by herself. I never allude to mine."

"You are unmarried, Georgina," said Lady Belstone, unexpectedly turning upon her ally. "Unmarried ladies are always sensitive on the subject of age. I am sure I do not care who knows that my poor admiral was twenty years my senior. And his age can be looked up in any book of reference. It would have been useless to try and conceal it,—a man so well known."

"A woman is as old as she looks," said the canon, soothingly, for the annoyance of Miss Crewys was visible. "I am bound to say that Miss Crewys looks exactly the same as when I first knew her."

"Of course, a spinster escapes the wear and tear of matrimony," said
Miss Crewys, glaring at her widowed relative.

"H'm, h'm!" said Dr. Blundell. "By-the-by, have you inspected the old picture gallery, Mr. Crewys?"

"Not yet," said John.

Lady Belstone shot a glance of speechless indignation at her sister. Sympathy between them was immediately restored. Prompt action was necessary on the part of the family, or this presumptuous physician would be walking round the house to show John Crewys the portraits of his own ancestors.

"I shall be delighted to show our cousin the pictures in the gallery and in the dining-room," said Miss Crewys, "if my sister Isabella will accompany me, and if Lady Mary has no objections."

"You are very kind," said John. He rose and walked to a small rosewood cabinet of curios. "I see there are some beautiful miniatures here."

"Oh, those do not belong to the family."

"They are Setoun things—some of the few that came to me," said Lady
Mary, rather timidly. "I am afraid they would not interest you."

"Not interest me! But indeed I care only too much for such things," said John. "Here is a Cosway, and, unless I very much mistake, a Plimer,—and an Engleheart."

Lady Mary unlocked the cabinet with pretty eagerness, and put a small morocco case into his hands.

"Then here is something you will like to see."

For a moment John did not understand. He glanced quickly from the row of tiny, pearl-framed, old-world portraits, of handsome nobles and rose-tinted court dames, to the very indifferent modern miniature he held.

The portrait of a schoolboy,—an Eton boy with a long nose and small, grey eyes, and an expression distinctly rather sulky and lowering than open or pleasing. Not a stupid face, however, by any means.

"It is my boy—Peter," said Lady Mary, softly.

To her the face was something more than beautiful. She looked up at
John with a happy certainty of his interest in her son.

"Here he is again, when he was younger. He was a pretty little fellow then, as you see."

"Very pretty. But not very like you," said John, scarcely knowing what he said.

He was strangely moved and touched by her evident confidence in his sympathy, though his artistic tastes were outraged by the two portraits she asked him to admire. He reflected that women were very extraordinary creatures; ready to be pleased with anything Providence might care to bestow upon them in the shape of a child, even cross-looking boys with long noses and small eyes. The heir of Barracombe resembled his aunts rather than his parents.

"He is a thorough Crewys; not a bit like me. All the Setouns are fair, I believe. Peter is very dark. He is such a big fellow now; taller than I am. I sometimes wish," said Lady Mary, laying the miniature on the table as though she could not bear to shut it away immediately, "that one's children never grew up. They are such darlings when they are little, and they are bound, of course, to disappoint one sometimes as they grow older."

John Crewys felt almost murderously inclined towards Peter. So the young cub had presumed to disappoint his mother as he grew older! How dared he?

Poor Lady Mary was quite unconscious of the feelings with which he gazed at the little case in his hand.

"Not that my boy has ever really disappointed me—yet," she said, with her pretty apologetic laugh. "I only mean that, in the course of human nature, it's bound to come, now and then."

"No doubt," said John, gently.

Then she allowed him to examine the rest of the cabinet, whilst she talked on, always of Peter—his horsemanship and his shooting and his prowess in every kind of sport and game.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, Lady Belstone was holding a hurried consultation with her sister.

"How thoughtless you are, Georgina, asking our cousin into the dining-room just when Ash must be laying the cloth for dinner. He will be sadly put about."

"Dear, dear, it quite slipped my memory, Isabella."

"You have no head at all, Georgina."

"Can I frame an excuse?" said Miss Crewys, piteously, "or will he think it discourteous?"

"Leave it to me, Georgina," said Lady Belstone, with the air of a diplomat. "Mary, my love!"

Lady Mary started. "Yes, Isabella."

"Georgina has very properly recalled to me that candles and lamps make a very poor light for viewing the family portraits. You know, my love, the Vandyck is so very dark and black. She proposes, therefore, with your permission, to act as our cousin's cicerone to-morrow morning, in the daytime. Shall we say—at eleven o'clock, John?"

Canon Birch started nervously, and the doctor frowned at him.

"At eleven o'clock," said John, in steady tones; and, as he spoke, Sir
Timothy entered the hall.