“Sarah,” said her mother, in breathless indignation, “will you be silent?”

“What does this mean, Timothy?” said Lady Mary, trembling.

She stood by the centre table; and the hanging lamp above shed its light on her brown hair, and flashed in her blue eyes, and from the diamond ring she wore.

The doctor rose from his chair.

“I am at a loss to understand,” said Sir Timothy.

“It means,” said Sarah, half-hysterically,—­“oh, can’t you see what it means?  It just means that Peter is going to South Africa, whether you like it or not.”

“There must be some mistake, of course,” said Mrs. Hewel, in distressed tones.  “And yet—­George’s letter was so very clear.”

Dr. Blundell touched the canon’s arm.

“Shall I—­must I—­” whispered the canon, nervously.

“There is no help for it,” said the doctor.  He was looking at Lady Mary as he spoke.  Her face was deathly; her little frail hand grasped the table.

“Sir Timothy,” said the canon, “I—­I have a communication to make to you.”

“On this subject?” said Sir Timothy.

“A letter from Peter.”

“Why did you not say so earlier?” said Sir Timothy, harshly.

“I will explain, if you will kindly give me five minutes in the study.”

“A letter from Peter,” said Lady Mary, “and not—­to me.”

She looked round at them all with a little vacant smile.

John Crewys, who knew nothing of Peter’s letter, had already grasped the situation.  He divined also that Lady Mary was fighting piteously against the conviction that Sarah’s news was true.

“How could we guess you did not know?” said Mrs. Hewel, almost weeping.

“I am still in the dark,” said Sir Timothy, coldly.

“Birch will explain at once,” said the doctor, impatiently.

“Peter writes—­asking me,—­I am sure I don’t know why he pitched upon me,—­to—­break the news to you, that he has joined Lord Ferries’ Horse; feeling it his—­his duty to his country to do so,” said the unhappy canon, folding and unfolding the letter he held, with agitated fingers.

“I knew there would be a satisfactory explanation,” said Mrs. Hewel, tearfully.  “Dear Lady Mary, having so inadvertently anticipated Peter’s letter, there is only one thing left for me to do.  I must at least leave you and Sir Timothy in peace to read it.  Come, Sarah.”

“Allow me to put you into your carriage,” said Sir Timothy, in a voice of iron.

Sarah followed them to the door, paused irresolutely, and stole back to Lady Mary’s side.

“Say you’re not angry with me, dear, beautiful Lady Mary,” she whispered passionately.  “Do say you’re not angry.  I didn’t know it would make you so unhappy.  It was partly my fault for telling Peter in the holidays that only old men, invalids, and—­and cowards—­were shirking South Africa.  I thought you’d be glad, like me, that Peter should go and fight like all the other boys.”