When he came to Barracombe, he knew that she had suffered greatly during these months of his absence, and reproached himself angrily for blindness and selfishness.

He had spent the first weeks of his long vacation in Switzerland, in order to bring the date of his visit to the Youle Valley as near as possible to the date of Peter’s coming of age; but, also, he had been very much overworked, and felt an absolute want of rest and change before entering upon the struggle which he supposed might await him, and for which he would probably need all the good humour and good sense he possessed.  So far as he was personally concerned, there was no doubt that his proceedings had been dictated by wisdom and judgment.

The fatigue and irritability, consequent upon too much mental labour, and too little fresh air and exercise, had vanished.  John was in good health and good spirits, clear of brain and eye, and vigorous of person, when he arrived at Barracombe; in the mild, wet, misty weather which heralded the approach of a typical Devonshire autumn.

But when he looked at Lady Mary, he knew that he would have been better able to dispense with that holiday interval than she was to have endured it.

She had always been considered marvellously young-looking for her age.  The quiet country life she had led had bestowed that advantage upon her; and her beauty, fair as she was, had always been less dependent on colouring than upon the exquisite delicacy of her features and general contour.  But now a heaviness beneath the blue eyes,—­a little fading of her brightness—­a little droop of the beautifully shaped mouth,—­almost betrayed her seven and thirty years; and the soft, abundant, brown hair was threaded quite perceptibly with silver.  Her sweet face smiled upon him; but the smile was no longer, he thought, joyous—­but pathetic, as of one who reproaches herself wonderingly for light-heartedness.

John looked at her in silence, but the words he uttered in his heart were, “I will never leave you any more.”

Perhaps his face said everything that he did not say, for Lady Mary had turned from him with a little sob, and leant her forehead on her hands, looking out at the rain which swept the valley.  She felt, as she had always felt in John’s presence, that here was her champion and her protector and her slave, in one; returned to restore her failing courage and her lost self-confidence.

“So you saw something of Peter in London?” she said tremulously, breaking the silence which had fallen between them after their first greeting.  “Please tell me.  You know I have seen almost nothing of him since he came home.”

“So I gather,” said John.  “Yes, I saw something—­not very much—­of Master Peter in London.  You see I am not much of a society man;” and he laughed.

“Was Peter a society man?” said his mother, laughing also, but rather sadly.

“He went out a good deal, and was to be met with in most places,” John answered.