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Updated: May 21, 2025
John was in good health and good spirits, clear of brain and eye, and vigorous of person, when he arrived at Barracombe; in the mild, wet, misty weather which heralded the approach of a typical Devonshire autumn. But when he looked at Lady Mary, he knew that he would have been better able to dispense with that holiday interval than she was to have endured it.
"You must know perfectly well it would be preposterous," said Peter, sullenly, "to break up all your habits, and leave Barracombe and and all of us and start a fresh life at your age. And if this is how you mock at me and all my plans, I'm sorry I ever took you into my confidence at all. I might have known I should repent it," he said; and a sob of angry resentment broke his voice.
The Restoration, however, caused Farmer Timothy to welcome his relative home in the warmest manner, and the brothers were not only reconciled in their old age, but the elder made haste to transfer the ownership of Barracombe to the younger, in terror lest his own disloyalty should be rewarded by confiscation of the family acres.
Barracombe noiselessly put some coal on the fire, and they stole out again. Half-past eleven. "Don't you think you had better go to bed, Kate?" "I couldn't sleep if I did, Billy. I couldn't even lie still. Oh, how helpless one feels! Charley may be drowning, and we don't know it, and can't do anything to help." "Pull yourself together, Kate. I am sure he is all right.
"I suppose you meant to go into that little, damp, tumble-down Dower House, and watch over me from there; now didn't you, mummy?" "I I thought, when you came of age," faltered Lady Mary, "that I should give up Barracombe House to you, naturally. I could come and stay with you sometimes whether you were married or not, you know. And and, of course, the Dower House does belong to me."
I think, later on, you may even perceive advantages in the arrangement under the circumstances; when you have recovered from your natural regret in realizing that she must leave Barracombe " "It isn't that," said Peter, hoarsely.
A heap of folded moth-eaten rugs and wraps disfigured a side-table, and beneath it stood a row of clogs and goloshes. Round the walls hung full-length portraits of an early Victorian date. The artist had spent a couple of months at Barracombe fifty years since, and had painted three generations of the Crewys family, who were then gathered together beneath its hospitable roof.
These visions touched him not: he was crossing into Asia Minor, a country of which he knew nothing, and his attention was divided between the country ahead and the map with which Barracombe had nefariously provided him. The next stage of his journey, the first place where a fresh supply of petrol awaited him, was Karachi, in the north-west corner of India. It was distant about 2,500 miles.
"I be downright glad to zee 'ee come back, zur; ay, that 'a be. What vur du 'ee go gadding London ways, zays I, when there be zuch a turble lot to zee arter? and the ladyship oop Barracombe ways, her bain't vit var tu du 't, as arl on us du know. Tis butivul tu zee how her takes on," he repeated admiringly. John glanced uneasily at his companion, who stood with downcast eyes.
Long ago, in Peter's childhood, she had learned to make this bedroom her refuge, where she could read or write or dream, in silence; away from the two old ladies, who seemed to pervade all the living-rooms at Barracombe. Peter had been accustomed all his life to seek his mother here. She had chosen the room at her marriage, and had had an old-fashioned paper of bunched rosebuds put up there.
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