How many small miseries she owed to those ferret searching eyes, and those subtly poisonous tongues!  But such miseries lurked in the dull shadows of the past.  Standing now in the bright sunshine of the present, she forgave the sisters with all her heart, and thought compassionately of their great age, their increasing infirmities, their feeble hold on life.

Not to them did she owe real sorrow, after all; for nothing that does not touch the heart can reach the fountain of grief.

Peter’s hand—­the hand she loved best in the world—­had set the waters of sorrow flowing not once, but many times; but she had become aware lately of a stronger power than Peter’s guarding the spring.

She looked from one sister to the other.

Despite the narrowness of brow, and sharpness of eye and feature, they were both venerable of aspect, as they tottered up and down the terrace where they had played in their childhood and sauntered through youth and middle age to these latter days, when they leant upon silver-headed sticks, and wore dignified silk attire and respectable poke-bonnets.

“Don’t you think it would be better,” said Lady Mary, slowly, “if you left Peter to find out his wife’s faults for himself; whether she be Sarah—­or another?”

CHAPTER XVI

Torrents of falling rain obscured the valley of the Youle.  The grey clouds floated below the ridges of the hills, and wreathed the tree-tops.  Against the dim purple of the distance, the October roses held up melancholy, rain-washed heads; and sudden gusts of wind sent little armies of dead, brown leaves racing over the stone pavement of the terrace.

Lady Mary leant her forehead against the window, and gazed out upon the autumn landscape; and John Crewys watched her with feelings not altogether devoid of self-reproach.

Perhaps he had carried his prudent consideration too far.

His reverence for his beautiful lady—­who reigned in John’s inmost thoughts as both saint and queen—­had caused him to determine that she must come to him, when she did come, without a shadow of self-reproach to sully the joy of her surrender, the fulness, of her bliss, in the perfect sympathy and devotion which awaited her.

But John Crewys—­though passionately desiring her companionship, and impatient of all barriers, real or imaginary, which divided her from him—­yet lived a life very full of work and interest and pleasure on his own account.  He was only conscious of his loneliness at times; and when he was as busy as he had been during the early half of this summer, he was hardly conscious of it at all.

He had not fully realized the effect that this time of waiting and uncertainty might have upon her, in the solitude to which he had left her, and which he had at first supposed would be altogether occupied by Peter.  Her letters—­infrequent as he, in his self-denial, had suggested—­were characterized by a delicate reserve and a tacit refusal to take anything for granted in their relations to each other, which half charmed and half tantalized John; but scarcely enlightened him regarding the suspense and sadness which at this time she was called upon to bear.