John got up.  “That is an idea,” he said.  He paused and looked at the doctor.  “You have known her longer than I. Have you said nothing to her of all this?”

The doctor smiled grimly.  “Mr. Crewys,” he said, “some time since I spoke my mind—­a thing I am over-apt to do—­of Peter, and to him.  The lad has forgiven me; he is a man, you see, with all his faults.  But Lady Mary, though she has all the virtues of a woman, is also a mother.  A woman often forgives; a mother, never.  Don’t forget.”

“I will not,” said John.

“And you’ll do it—­”

“Use the unlimited authority that has been placed in my hands, by improving this tumble-down, overgrown place?” said John, slowly.  “Let in light, air, and sunshine to Barracombe, and do my best to brighten Lady Mary’s life, without reference to any one’s prejudices, past or present?”

“You’ve got the idea,” said the doctor, joyfully.  “Will you carry it out?”

“Yes,” said John.

CHAPTER IX

The new moon brightened above the rim of the opposite hill, and touched the river below with silver reflections.  On the grass banks sloping away beneath the terrace gardens, sheets of bluebells shone almost whitely on the grass.  The silent house rose against the dark woods, whitened also here and there by the blossom of wild cherry-trees.

Lady Mary stepped from the open French windows of the drawing-room into the still, scented air of the April night.  She stood leaning against the stone balcony, and gazing at the wonderful panorama of the valley and overlapping hills; where the little river threaded its untroubled course between daisied meadows and old orchards and red crumbling banks.

A broad-shouldered figure appeared in the window, and a man’s step crunched the gravel of the path which Lady Mary had crossed.

“For once I have escaped, you see,” she said, without turning round.  “They will not venture into the night air.  Sometimes I think they will drive me mad—­Isabella and Georgina.”

“Mary!” cried a shrill voice from the drawing-room, “how can you be so imprudent!  John, how can you allow her!”

John stepped back to the window.  “It is very mild,” he said.  “Lady Mary likes the air.”

There was a note of authority in his tone which somehow impressed Lady Belstone, who withdrew, muttering to herself, into the warm lamplight of the drawing-room.

Perhaps the two old ladies were to be pitied, too, as they sat together, but forlorn, sincerely shocked and uneasy at their sister-in-law’s behaviour.

“Dear Timothy not dead three months, and she sitting out there in the night air, as he would never have permitted, talking and laughing; yes, I actually hear her laughing—­with John.”

“There is no telling what she may do now,” said Miss Crewys, gloomily.

“I declare it is a judgment, Georgina.  Why did Timothy choose to trust a perfect stranger—­even though John is a cousin—­with the care of his wife and son, and his estate, rather than his own sisters?”