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A deeply sunken nail-studded door led into a low-ceiled library, containing a finely carved frieze and cornice, and an oak mantelpiece, which John Crewys earnestly desired to examine more closely; the shield-of-arms above it bore the figures of 1603, but the hall itself was of an earlier date.
But if there was anything you particularly wanted to say you know how tiresome she is, keeping as close as she can, to listen to every word why, it would be better to say it now. I am not in such a hurry as all that." "You know very well I want to say a thousand things," said Peter, vehemently. "I have been walking up and down till I thought I should go mad, making conversation with John Crewys."
"If you and my guardian decided they were rotten, there's an end of it. Of course I'd rather have things as they used to be; but after all this time, I expect there's bound to be a few changes." He turned from the contemplation of the hall to face his relatives squarely, with the air of an autocrat who had decreed that the subject was at an end. "By-the-by," said Peter, "where is John Crewys?
His diligence had been more remarkable than his ability. At any other time John Crewys would have laughed outright at this collection of works of art. But the air was charged with tragedy, and he could not laugh.
The pocket-handkerchief she held up was deeply bordered with ink. Orthodox streamers floated on either side her severe countenance. The canon looked and shook his head. He felt that the mysteries of a widow's garments had best not be discussed by one who dwelt, so to speak, outside them. "Poor Mary can do nothing gradually," said Miss Crewys.
Those moments had been all too few, because John Crewys also had monopolized a share of Miss Sarah's attention. Peter did not dislike his guardian, whose composed courtesy and absolute freedom from self-consciousness, or any form of affectation, made it difficult indeed not to like him.
I often see her name in the papers." "She is exactly the kind of person to attract our cousin John, who is quite foolish about her red hair. In my young days, red hair was just a misfortune like any other," said Miss Crewys. "Dr. Blundell is lunching here also, I need hardly say. Since my dear brother's death we keep open house."
His services thus recognized and rewarded, old Sir Peter Crewys settled down amicably with his brother at Barracombe. Presumably there had always been an excellent understanding between them. In any case no question of divided interests ever arose.
Perhaps the unwonted stir and bustle, the coming and going of John Crewys, the confusion of workmen, the novel interest of renovating and restoring the old house, helped to brace and fortify Lady Mary during the months which followed; months, nevertheless, of suspense and anxiety, which reduced her almost to a shadow of her former self.
"That is just what I told her," said Lady Belstone, triumphantly. "Though how she can be regretting such a daughter I cannot conjecture." "Sarah is a saucy creature," said Miss Crewys. "The last time I saw her she made one of her senseless jokes at me."
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