Lady Mary, coming from the library with the letter in her hand, met her husband in the hall.

"Timothy!"

She looked at him wistfully. Her face was very pale as she gave him the letter. Sir Timothy took out his glasses, wiped them deliberately, and put them on.

"Never mind reading it. I can tell you in one word," she said, trembling with impatience. "My boy is sailing for South Africa to-morrow morning."

"I prefer," said Sir Timothy, "to read the letter for myself."

"Oh, do be quick!" she said, half under her breath.

But he read it slowly twice, and folded it. He was really thunderstruck. Peter was accustomed to write polite platitudes to his parent, and had presumably not intended that his letter to the canon should be actually read by Sir Timothy, when he had asked that the contents of it should be broken to him.

"Selfish, disobedient, headstrong, deceitful boy!" said Sir Timothy.

Lady Mary started. "How can you talk so!" Her gentle voice sounded almost fierce. "At least he has proved himself a man.' And he is right. It was a shame and a disgrace for him to stay at home, whilst his comrades did their duty. I say it a thousand times, though I am his mother."

Then she broke down. "Oh, Peter, my boy, my boy, how could you leave me without a word!"

"Perhaps this step was taken with your connivance after all?" said Sir Timothy, suspiciously. He could not follow her rapid changes of mood, and had listened resentfully to her defence of her son.

"Timothy!" said Lady Mary, trembling, "when have I ever been disloyal to you in word or deed?"

"Never, I hope," said Sir Timothy. His voice shook a little. "I do not doubt you for a moment, Mary. But you spoke with such strange vehemence, so unlike your usual propriety of manner."

She broke into a wild laugh which pained and astonished him.

"Did I? I must have forgotten myself for a moment."

"You must, indeed. Pray be calm. I understand that this must be a terrible shock to you."

"It is not a shock," said Lady Mary, defiantly. "I glory in it. I—I wish him to go. Oh, Peter, my darling!"

She hid her face in her hands.

"It would be more to the purpose," said Sir Timothy, "to consider what is to be done."

"Could we stop him?" she cried eagerly, and then changed once more.
"No, no; I wouldn't if I could. He would never forgive me."

"Of course, we cannot stop him," said Sir Timothy. He raised his voice as he was wont when he was angry. Canon Birch, in the drawing-room, heard the loud threatening tones, and was thankful for the door which shut him from Sir Timothy's presence. "He has laid his plans for thwarting my known wishes too well. I do not know what might be said if we stopped him. I—I won't have my name made a laughing-stock. I am a Crewys, and the honour of the family lies in my hands. I can't give the world a right to suspect a Crewys of cowardice, by preventing his departure on active service. We have fought before—in a better cause."

"We won't discuss the cause," said Lady Mary, gently. When Sir Timothy began to shout, she always grew calm. "Then you will not telegraph to my cousin Ferries?"

"Ferries ought to have written to me, and not taken the word of a mere boy, like Peter," stormed Sir Timothy. "But the fact is, I never flattered Ferries as he expected; it is not my way to natter any one; and consequently he took a dislike to me. He must have known what my views are. I am sure he did it on purpose."

"It was natural he should believe Peter, and I don't think he knows you well enough to dislike you," said Lady Mary, simply. "He has only seen you twice, Timothy."

"That was evidently sufficient," said Sir Timothy, meaning to be ironical, and unaware that he was stating a plain fact. "I shall certainly not telegraph to tell him that my son has lied to him, well as Peter deserves that I should do so."

"Oh, don't, don't; you are so hard!" she said piteously. "If you'd only listened to him when he implored you to let him go, we could have made his last days at home all they should be. He's been hiding in London, poor Peter; getting his outfit by stealth, ashamed, whilst other boys are being fÊted and praised by their people, proud of earning so early their right to be considered men. And—and he's only a boy. And he said himself, all's fair in love and war. Indeed, Timothy, it is an exceptional case."

"Mary, your weakness is painful, and your idolatry of Peter will bring its own punishment. The part of his deception that should pain you most is the want of heart he has displayed," said Sir Timothy, bitterly.

"And doesn't it?" she said, with a pathetic smile. "But one oughtn't to expect too much heart from a boy, ought one? It's—it's not a healthy sign. You said once you were glad he wasn't sentimental, like me."

"I should have wished him to exhibit proper feeling on proper occasions. His present triumph over my authority involves his departure to certain danger and possible death, without even affording us the opportunity of bidding him farewell. He is ready and willing to leave us thus."

Lady Mary uttered a stifled scream. "But I won't let him. How can you think his mother will let him go like that?"

"How can you help it?"

She pressed her trembling hands to her forehead. "I will think. There is a way. There are plenty of ways. I can drive to the junction—it's not much further than Brawnton—and catch the midnight express, and get to Southampton by daybreak. I know it can be done. Ash will look out the trains. Why do you look at me like that? You're not going to stop my going, are you? You're not going to try and stop me, are you? For you won't succeed. Oh yes, I know I've been an obedient wife, Timothy. But I—I defied you once before for Peter's sake; when he was such a little boy, and you wanted to punish him—don't you remember?"

"Don't talk so, Mary," said Sir Timothy, almost soothingly. Her vehemence really alarmed and distressed him. "It is not like you to talk like this. You will be sorry—afterwards," he said; and his voice softened.

She responded instantly. She came closer to him, and took his big shaking hand into her gentle clasp.

"I should be sorry afterwards," she said, "and so would you. Even you would be sorry, Timothy, if anything happened to Peter. I'll try and not make any more excuses for him, if you like. I know he's not a child now. He's almost a man; and men seem to me to grow harsh and unloving as they grow older. I try, now and then, to shut my eyes and see him as he once was; but all the time I know that the little boy who used to be Peter has gone away for ever and ever and ever. If he had died when he was little he would always have been my little boy, wouldn't he? But, thank God, he didn't die. He's going to be a great strong man, and a brave soldier, and—and all I've ever wanted him to be—when he's got over these wilful days of boyhood. But he mustn't go without his father's blessing and his mother's kiss."

"He has chosen to do so, Mary," said Sir Timothy, coldly.

She clung to him caressingly. "But you're going to forgive him before he goes, Timothy. There's no time to be angry before he goes. It may be too late to-morrow."

"It may be too late to-morrow," repeated Sir Timothy, heavily.

He resented, in a dull, self-pitying fashion, the fact that his wife's thoughts were so exclusively fixed on Peter, in her ignorance of his own more immediate danger.

"Don't think I'm blind to his faults," urged Lady Mary, "only I can laugh at them better than you can, because I know all the while that at the very bottom of his heart he's only my baby Peter after all. He's not—God bless him—he's not the dreary, cold-blooded, priggish boy he sometimes pretends to be. Don't remember him like that now, Timothy. Think of that morning in June—that glorious, sunny morning in June, when you knelt by the open window in my room and thanked God because you had a son. Think of that other summer day when we couldn't bear even to look at the roses because little Peter was so ill, and we were afraid he was going back to heaven."

Her soft, rapid words touched Sir Timothy to a vague feeling of pity for her, and for Peter, and for himself. But the voice of the charmer, charm she never so wisely, had no power, after all, to dispel the dark cloud that was hanging over him.

The sorrow gave way to a keener anxiety. The calmness of mind which the great surgeon had prescribed—the placid courage, largely aided by dulness of imagination, which had enabled poor Sir Timothy to keep in the very background of his thoughts all apprehensions for the morrow—where were they?

He repressed with an effort the emotion which threatened to master him, and forced himself to be calm. When he spoke again his voice sounded not much less measured and pompous than usual.

"My dear, you are agitating yourself and me. Let us confine ourselves to the subject in hand."

Lady Mary dropped the unresponsive hand she held so warmly pressed between her own, and stepped back.

"Ah, forgive me!" she said in clear tones. "It's so difficult to—"

"To—?"

"To be exactly what you wish. To be always on guard. My feelings broke bounds for once."

"Calm yourself," said Sir Timothy. "And besides, so far as I am concerned, your pleading for Peter is unnecessary."

"You have forgiven him?" she cried joyfully, yet almost incredulously.

He paused, and then said with solemnity: "I have forgiven him, Mary. It is not the moment for me to cherish resentment, least of all against my only son."

"Ah, thank God! Then you will come to Southampton?"

"That is impossible. But I will telegraph my forgiveness and the blessing which he has not sought that he may receive it before the ship sails."

"I am grateful to you for doing even so much as that, Timothy, and for not being angry. Then I must go alone?"

"No, no."

"Understand me," said Lady Mary, in a low voice, "for I am in earnest. I have never deceived you. I will not defy you in secret, like Peter; but I will go and bid my only son God-speed, though the whole world conspired to prevent me. I will go!"

There was a pause.

"You speak," said Sir Timothy, resentfully, "as though I had habitually thwarted your wishes."

"Oh, no," said his wife, softly, "you never even found out what they were."

He did not notice the words; it is doubtful whether he heard them.

"It has been my best endeavour to promote your happiness throughout our married life, Mary, so far as I considered it compatible with your highest welfare. I do not pretend I can enter into the high-flown and romantic feelings engendered by your reprehensible habit of novel-reading."

"You've scolded me so often for that," said Lady Mary, half mockingly, half sadly. "Can't we—keep to the subject in hand, as you said just now?"

"I have a reason, a strong reason," said Sir Timothy, "for wishing you to remain at home to-morrow. I had hoped, by concealing it from you, to spare you some of the painful suspense and anxiety which I am myself experiencing."

Lady Mary laughed.

"How like a man to suppose a woman is spared anything by being kept in the dark! I knew something was wrong. Dr. Blundell and Canon Birch are in your confidence, I presume? They kept exchanging glances like two mysterious owls. Your sisters are not, or they would be sighing and shaking their heads. And John—John Crewys? Oh, he is a lawyer. When does a visitor ever come here except on business? He has something to do with it. Ah, to advise you for nothing over your purchase of the Crown lands! You have got into some difficulty over that, or something of the kind? You brought him down here for some special purpose, I am sure; but I did not know him well enough, and I knew you too well, to ask why."

"Mary, what has come to you? I never knew you quite like this before.
I dislike this extraordinary flippancy of tone very much."

"I beg your pardon," said Lady Mary; make allowance for me this once. I learnt ten minutes ago that my boy was going to the war. I must either laugh or—or cry, and you wouldn't like me to do that; but it's a way women have when their hearts are half broken."

"I don't understand you," he said helplessly.

Lady Mary looked at him as though she had awakened, frightened, to the consciousness of her own temerity.

"I don't quite understand myself, I think," she said, in a subdued voice. "I won't torment you any more, Timothy; I will be as calm and collected—as you wish. Only let me go."

"Will you not listen to my reason for wishing you to remain at home?" he said sternly. "It is an important one."

"I had forgotten," she said indifferently. "How can there be any business in the world half so important to me as seeing my boy once more before he sails?"

The colour of Sir Timothy's ruddy face deepened almost to purple, his grey eyes glowered sullen resentment at his wife.

"Since you desire to have your way in opposition to my wishes, go!" he thundered. "I will not hinder you further."

But his sonorous wrath was too familiar to be impressive.

Lady Mary's expression scarcely changed when Sir Timothy raised his voice. She turned, however, at the foot of the staircase, and spoke to him again.

"Let me just go and give the order for my things to be packed, Timothy, and tell Ash to go and find out about the trains, and I will return and listen to whatever you wish—I will, indeed. I could not pay proper attention to anything until I knew that was being done."

Sir Timothy did not trust himself to speak. He bowed his head, and the slender figure passed swiftly up the stairs.

Sir Timothy walked twice deliberately up and down the empty hall, and felt his pulse. The slow, steady throb reassured him. He opened the door of the study.

"John," said Sir Timothy, "would you kindly come out here and speak to me for a moment? Dr. Blundell, would you have the goodness to await me a little longer? You will find the London papers there."

"I have them," said Dr. Blundell, from the armchair by the study fire.

John Crewys closed the door behind him, and looked rather anxiously at his cousin. It struck him that Sir Timothy had lost some of his ruddy colour, and that his face looked drawn and old.

But the squire placed himself with his back to the log fire, and made an effort to speak in his voice of everyday. His slightly pompous, patronizing manner returned upon him.

"You are doubtless accustomed, John, in the course of your professional work," he said, "to advise in difficult matters. You come among us a stranger—and unprejudiced. Will you—er—give me the benefit of your opinion?"

"To the best of my ability," said John. He paused, and added gently,
"I am sorry for this fresh trouble that has come upon you."

"That is the subject on which I mean to consult you. Do you consider that—that her husband or her child should stand first in a woman's eyes?"

"Her husband, undoubtedly," said John, readily, "but—"

"But what?" said Sir Timothy, impatiently. A gleam of satisfaction had broken over his heavy face at his cousin's reply.

"I speak from a man's point of view," said John. "Woman—and possibly
Nature—may speak differently."

"Your judgment, however, coincides with mine, which is all that matters," said Sir Timothy. He did not perceive the twinkle in John's eyes at this reply. "In my opinion there are only two ways of looking at every question—the right way and the wrong way."

"My profession teaches me," said John, "that there are as many different points of view as there are parties to a case."

"Then—from my point of view," said Sir Timothy, with an air of waving all other points of view away as irrelevant, "since my wife, very naturally, desires to see her son again before he sails, am I justified in allowing her to set off in ignorance of the ordeal that awaits me?"

"Good heavens, no!" cried John. "Should the operation prove unsuccessful, you would be entailing upon her a lifelong remorse."

"I did not look upon it in that light," said Sir Timothy, rather stiffly. "The propriety or the impropriety of her going remains in any, case the same, whether the operation succeeds or fails. I feared that it would be the wrong thing to allow her to go at all; that it might cause comment were she absent from my side at such a critical juncture."

"I see," said John. His mobile, expressive face and bright hazel eyes seemed to light up for one instant with scorn and wonder; then he recollected himself. "It is natural you should wish for her sustaining presence, no doubt," he said.

"I trust you do not suppose that I should be selfishly considering my own personal feelings at such a time," said Sir Timothy, in a lofty tone of reproof. "I am only desirous of doing what is right in the matter. I am asking your advice because I feel that my self-command has been shaken considerably by this unexpected blow. I am less sure of my judgment than usual in consequence. However, if you think my wife ought to be told"—John nodded very decidedly—"let her be told. I am bound to say Dr. Blundell thought so too, though his opinion is neither here nor there in such a matter, but so long as you understand that my only desire is that both she and I should do what is most correct and proper." He came closer to John. "It is of vital importance for me to preserve my composure," said Sir Timothy. "I am not fitted for—for any kind of scene just now. Will you undertake for me the task of explaining to—to my dear wife the situation in which I am placed?"

"I will do my best," said John. He was touched by the note of piteous anxiety which had crept into the squire's harsh voice.

"Thank you," said Sir Timothy. "Will you await her here? She is returning immediately. Break it to her as gently as you can. I shall rest and compose myself by a talk with Dr. Blundell."

He went slowly to the study, leaving John Crewys alone.