  "The very last of the roses," said Lady Mary. She looked round the banqueting hall. The wax candles shed a radiance upon their immediate surroundings, which accentuated the shadows of each unlighted corner. Bowls of roses, red and white and golden, bloomed delicately in every recess against the black oak of the panels. The flames were leaping on the hearth about a fresh log thrown into the red-hot wood-ash. The two old sisters sat almost in the chimney corner, side by side, where they could exchange their confidences unheard. Lady Belstone still mourned her admiral in black silk and crÊpe, whilst Miss Georgina's respect for her brother's memory was made manifest in plum-coloured satin. Lady Mary, too, wore black to-night. Since the day of Peter's return she had not ventured to don her favourite white. Her gown was of velvet; her fair neck and arms shone through the yellowing folds of an old lace scarf which veiled the bosom. A string of pearls was twisted in her soft, brown hair, lending a dim crown to her exquisite and gracious beauty in the tender light of the wax candles. Candlelight is kind to the victims of relentless time; disdaining to notice the little lines and shadows care has painted on tired faces; restoring delicacy to faded complexions, and brightness to sad eyes. The faint illumination was less kind to Sarah, in her white gown and blue ribbons. The beautiful colour, which could face the morning sunbeams triumphantly in its young transparency, was almost too high in the warmth of the shadowy hall, where her golden-red hair made a glory of its own. The October evening seemed chilly to the aged sisters, and even Lady Mary felt the comfort of her velvet gown; but Sarah was impatient of the heat of the log fire, and longed for the open air. She envied Peter and John, who were reported to be smoking outside on the terrace. "The very last of the roses," said Lady Mary. "There will be a sharp frost to-night; they won't stand that," said "The poor roses of autumn," said Lady Mary, rather dreamily, "they are never so sweet as the roses of June." "But they are much rarer, and more precious," said Sarah. Lady Mary looked at her and smiled. How quickly Sarah always understood! Sarah caught her hand and kissed it impulsively. Her back was turned to the old sisters in the chimney corner. "Lady Mary," she said, "oh, never mind if I am indiscreet; you know I am always that." A little sob escaped her. "But I must ask you this one thing—you—you didn't really think that of me, did you?" "Think what, dear child?" said Lady Mary, bewildered. Sarah looked round at the two old ladies. The head of Miss Crewys was inclined towards the crochet she held in her lap. She slumbered peacefully. Lady Belstone was absently gazing into the heart of the great fire. "They will hear nothing," said Lady Mary, softly. "Tell me, Sarah, what you mean. I would ask you," she said, with a little smile and flush, "to tell me something else, only, I—too—am afraid of being indiscreet." "There is nothing I would not tell you," murmured Sarah, "though I believe I would rather tell you—out in the dark—than here," she laughed nervously. "The drawing-room is not lighted, except by the moon," said Lady Mary, also a little excited by the thought of what Sarah might, perhaps, be going to say; "but there is no fire there, I am afraid. The aunts do not like sitting there in the evening. But if you would not be too cold, in that thin, white gown—?" "I am never cold," said Sarah; "I take too much exercise, I suppose, to feel the cold." "Then come," said Lady Mary. They stole past the sleeping sisters into the drawing-room, and closed the communicating door as noiselessly as possible. Here only the moonlight reigned, pouring in through the uncurtained windows and rendering the gay, rose-coloured room, with its pretty contents, perfectly weird and unfamiliar. Sarah flung her warm, young arms about her earliest and most beloved friend, and rested her bright head against the gentle bosom. "You never thought I meant all the horrid, cruel things I made Peter say to you? You never believed it of me, did you? That I wouldn't marry him unless you went away. You whom I love best in the world, and always have," she said defiantly, "or that I would ever alter a single corner of this dear old house, which used to be so hideous, and which you have made so beautiful?" "Sarah! My—my darling!" said Lady Mary, in frightened, trembling tones. "You needn't blame Peter for saying any of it," said Sarah, "for it was I who put the words into his mouth. It made him miserable to say them; but he could not help himself. He wasn't really quite responsible for his actions. He isn't now. When people are—are in love, I've often noticed they're not responsible." "But why—" "I only wanted to show him what a goose he really was," murmured Sarah, hanging her head. "He came back so pompous and superior; talking about his father's place, and being the only man in the house, and obliged to look after you all; and it was all so ridiculous, and so out of date. I didn't mean to hurt you except just for a moment, because it could not be helped," said Sarah. She hid her face in Lady Mary's neck, half laughing and half crying. "I was so afraid you—you were taking him seriously; and—and he was so selfish, wanting to keep you all to himself." "Oh, Sarah, hush!" Lady Mary cried. She divined it all in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye. It was to Sarah had said Peter was not responsible. Was he only a puppet in the hands of the girl he loved? Could John ever have been thus blindly led and influenced? Her wounded heart said quickly that John was of a different, nobler, stronger nature. But the mother's instinct leapt to defend her son, and cried also that John was a man, and Peter but a boy in love, ready to sacrifice the whole world to her he worshipped. His father would never have done that. Lady Mary was even capable of an unreasoning pride in Peter's power of loving; though it was not her—alas! it never had been her—for whom her boy was willing to make the smallest sacrifice. But he had honestly meant to devote himself to his mother, according to his lights, had Sarah's influence not come in the way. Sarah, who must have divined her secret all the while, and who, with the dauntlessness of youth, had not hesitated to force open the door into a world so bright that Lady Mary almost feared to enter it, but trembled, as it were, upon the threshold of her own happiness—and Peter's. They were silent, holding each other in a close embrace, both conscious of the passing and repassing footsteps upon the gravel path without. Sarah was the first to recover herself. She put Lady Mary into her favourite chair, and came and knelt by her side. "That's over, and I'm forgiven," she said softly. "You will make my boy—happy?" whispered Lady Mary. "I can't tell whether he will be happy or not, if—if he marries me," said Sarah. She appeared to smother a laugh. "But Aunt Elizabeth seems reconciled to the idea. I think you bewitched her this afternoon. She is in love with you, and with this house, and with Mr. John. But more particularly with you. When I said I had refused Peter over and over again, she said I was a fool. But she says that whatever I do. I—I suppose I let her think," said Sarah, leaning her head against Lady Mary's knee, "that some day—if he is still idiotic enough to wish it—and if you don't mind—" "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 "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." The twinkling, frosty blue points of starlight glittered in the cloudless vault of heaven, above the moonlit stillness of the valley. The clear-cut shadows of the balcony and the stone urns fell across the cold paths and whitened grass of the terrace. Ghostlike, Sarah's white form emerged from the darkness of the room, and stood on the threshold of the window. John threw away the end of his cigar, and smiled. "I presume the interview we were not to interrupt is over?" he said, good-humouredly. "Surely it is not very prudent of Miss Sarah to venture out-of-doors in that thin gown; or has she a cloak of some kind—" But Peter was not listening to him. Sarah, wrapped in her white cloak and hood, had already flitted across the moonlit terrace, into the deep shadow of the ilex grove; and the boy was by her side before John could reach the window she had just quitted. "Oh, is it you, Peter?" said Miss Sarah, looking over her shoulder. "I was looking for you. I have put on my things. It is getting late, and I thought you would see me home." "Must you go already?" cried Peter. "Have they sent to fetch you?" "I dare say I could stay a few moments," said Sarah; "but, of course, my maid came ages ago, as usual. But if there was anything you particularly wanted to say—you know how tiresome she is, keeping as close as she can, to listen to every word—why, it would be better to say it now. I am not in such a hurry as all that." "You know very well I want to say a thousand things," said Peter, vehemently. "I have been walking up and down till I thought I should go mad, making conversation with John Crewys." Peter was honestly unaware that it was John who had made the conversation. "Has Lady Tintern come to take you away, Sarah? And why did she call on my mother this afternoon, the very moment she arrived?" "Your mother would be the proper person to tell you that. How should I know?" said Sarah, reprovingly. "Have you asked her?" "How can I ask her?" said Peter. His voice trembled. "I've not spoken to her once—except before other people—since John Crewys told me—what I told you this afternoon. I've scarcely seen any one since I left you. I wandered off for a beastly walk in the woods by myself, as miserable as any fellow would be, after all you said to me. Do you think I—I've got no feelings?" His voice sounded very forlorn, and Sarah felt remorseful. After all, Peter was her comrade and her oldest friend, as well as her lover. At the very bottom of her heart there lurked a remnant of her childish admiration for him, which would, perhaps, never quite be extinguished. The boy who got into scrapes, and was thrashed by his father, and who did not mind; the boy who vaulted over fences she had to climb or creep through; who went fishing, and threw a fly with so light and sure a hand, and filled his basket, whilst she wound her line about her skirts, and caught her hook, and whipped the stream in vain. He had climbed a tall fir-tree once, and brought down in safety a weeping, shame-stricken little girl with a red pigtail, whose daring had suddenly failed her; and he had gone up the tree himself like a squirrel afterwards, and fetched her the nest she coveted. Nor did he ever taunt her with her cowardice nor revert to his own exploit; but this was because Peter forgot the whole adventure in an hour, though Sarah remembered it to the end of her life. He climbed so many trees, and went birds'-nesting every spring to his mother's despair. Sarah thought of him wandering all the afternoon in his own woods, lonely and mortified, listening to the popping of the guns on the opposite side of the hill, which echoed through the valley; she knew what those sounds meant to Peter—the boy who had shot so straight and true, and who would never shoulder a gun any more. "I don't see why you should be so miserable," she said, as lightly as she could; but there were tears in her eyes, she was so sorry for Peter. "I dare say you don't," said Peter, bitterly. "Nobody has ever made a fool of you, no doubt. A wretched, self-confident fool, who gave you his whole heart to trample in the dust. I suppose I ought to have known you were only—playing with me—as you said—a wretched object as I am now, but—" "An object!" cried Sarah, so anxious to stem the tide of his reproaches that she scarce knew what she was saying, "which appeals to the soft side of every woman's heart, high or low, rich or poor, civilized or savage—a wounded soldier." "Do you think I want to be pitied?" said Peter, glowering. "Pitied!" said Sarah, softly. "Do you call this pity?" She leant forward and kissed his empty sleeve. Peter trembled at her touch. "It is—because you are sorry for me," he said hoarsely. "Sorry!" said Sarah, scornfully; "I glory in it." Then she suddenly began to cry. "I am a wicked girl," she sobbed, "and you were a fool, if you ever thought I could be happy anywhere but in this stupid old valley, or with—with any one but you. And I am rightly punished if my—my behaviour has made you change your mind. Because I did mean, just at first, to throw you over, and to—to go away from you, Peter. But—but the arm that wasn't there—held me fast." "Sarah!" She hid her face against his shoulder. * * * * * John Crewys was playing softly on the little oak piano in the banqueting hall, and Lady Mary stood before the open hearth, absently watching the sparks fly upward from the burning logs, and listening. The old sisters had gone to bed. Sarah's bright face, framed in her white hood, fresh and rosy from the cold breath of the October night, appeared in the doorway. "Peter is in there—waiting for you," she whispered, blushing. John Crewys rose from the piano, and came forward and held out his hand to Sarah, with a smile. Lady Mary hurried past them into the unlighted drawing-room. Her eyes, dazzled by the sudden change, could distinguish nothing for a moment. But Peter was there, waiting, and perhaps Lady Mary was thankful for the darkness, which hid her face from her son. "Peter!" "Mother!" She clung to her boy, and a kiss passed between them which said all that was in their hearts that night—of appeal—of understanding—of forgiveness—of the love of mother and son. And no foolish words of explanation were ever uttered to mar the gracious memory of that sacred reconciliation. THE END***** Produced by Kevin Handy, Dave Maddock, Josephine Paolucci and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. - You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work. 1.F.3. 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