“I do not know what Isabella and Georgina would say,” said Lady Mary.

“But you—­would you not care to come?”

“Oh!” she said, half sobbing, “it is because I am afraid of caring too much.  Life seems to call so loudly to me now and then; as though I were tired of sitting alone, and looking up the valley and down the valley.  I know it all by heart.  It would be fresh life; the stir, the movement; other people, fresh ideas, beautiful new things to see.  But, indeed, you must not tempt me.”  There was an accent of yearning in her tone, a hint of eager anticipation, as of a good time coming; a dream postponed, which she would nevertheless be willing one day to enjoy.  “I mustn’t go anywhere; I couldn’t—­until my boy comes home, if he ever comes home,” she added, under her breath.

“But when he comes home safe and sound, as please God he may,” said John, cheerfully, “why, then you have a great deal of lost time to make up.”

“Ah, yes!” said Lady Mary, and again that wistful note of longing sounded.  “I have thought sometimes I would not like to die before I have seen my birthplace once more.  And there is—­Italy,” she said, as though the one word conveyed every vision of earthly beauty which mortal could desire to behold—­as, indeed, it does.  And again she added, “But I don’t know what my sisters-in-law would say.  It would be against all the traditions.”

“Surely Lady Belstone, at least, must be less absurdly narrow-minded,” said John, almost impatiently.

“Shall I tell you the history of her marriage?” said Lady Mary.

Her pretty laugh rang out softly in the darkness, and thrilled John’s heart, and shocked yet further the old ladies who sat within, straining their ears for the sound of returning footsteps.

“It took place about forty years ago or less.  A cousin of her mother’s, Sir William Belstone, came to spend a few days here.  I believe the poor man invited himself, because he happened to be staying in the neighbourhood.  He was a gallant old sailor, and very polite to both his cousins; and one day Isabella interpreted his compliments into a proposal of marriage.  Georgina has given me to understand that no one was ever more astounded and terrified than the admiral when he found himself engaged to Isabella.  But apparently he was a chivalrous old gentleman, and would not disappoint her.  It is really rather a sad little story, because he died of heart disease very soon after the marriage.  Old Mrs. Ash, the housekeeper, always declares her mistress came home even more old-maidish in her ways than she went away, and that she quarrelled with the poor admiral from morning till night.  Perhaps that is why she has never lightened her garb of woe.  And she makes my life a burden to me because I won’t wear a cap.  Ah! how heartless it all sounds, and yet how ridiculous!  Dear Cousin John, haven’t I bored you?  Let us go in.”

With characteristic energy John Crewys set in hand the repairs which he had declared to be so necessary.