“I think,” said John, “that the time has come when he must be told.  I meant to put it off until he attained his majority; but since he has broached the subject of your leaving this house himself, he has given us the best opportunity possible.  And I also think—­that the telling had better be left to me.”

CHAPTER XVIII

John Crewys stood on the walk below the terrace, with Peter by his side, enjoying an after-breakfast smoke, and watching a party of sportsmen climbing up the bracken-clothed slopes of the opposite hillside.  A dozen beaters were toiling after the guns, among whom the short and sturdy figure of Colonel Hewel was very plainly to be distinguished.  A boy was leading a pony-cart for the game.

Sarah had accepted an invitation to dine and spend the evening with her beloved Lady Mary at Barracombe; but Peter had another appointment with her besides, of which Lady Mary knew nothing.  He was to meet her at the ferry, and picnic on the moor at the top of the hill, on his side of the river.  But through all the secret joy and triumph that possessed him at the remembrance of this rendezvous, he could not but sigh as he watched the little procession of sportsmen opposite, and almost involuntarily his regret escaped him in the half-muttered words—­

“I shall never shoot again.”

“There are things even better worth doing in life,” said John, sympathetically.

“Colonel Hewel wouldn’t give in to that,” said Peter.

“He’s rather a one-idea’d man,” John agreed.  “But if you asked him whether he’d sacrifice all the sport he’s ever likely to enjoy, for one chance to distinguish himself in action—­why, you’re a soldier, and you know best what he’d say.”

Peter’s brow cleared.  “You’ve got a knack,” he said, almost graciously, “of putting a fellow in a good humour with himself, Cousin John.”

“I generally find it easier to be in a good humour with myself than with other people,” said John, whimsically.  “One expects so little from one’s self, that one is scarcely ever disappointed; and so much from other people, that nothing they can do comes up to one’s expectations.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Peter, bluntly.  “Old Crawley says you take it out of yourself like anything.  Since I came back this time, he’s been holding forth to me about all you’ve done for me and the estate, and all that.  I didn’t know my father had left things in such a mess.  And that was a smart thing you did about buying in the farm, and settling the dispute with the Crown, which my father used to be so worried over.  I see I’ve got a good bit to thank you for, Cousin John.  I—­I’m no end grateful, and all that.”

“All right,” said John.  “Don’t bother to make speeches, old boy.”

“I must say one thing, though,” said Peter, awkwardly.  “I was against all the changes, and thought they might have been left till I came home; but I didn’t realize it was to be now or never, as old Crawley puts it, and that I’m not to have the right to touch my capital when I come of age.”