ENGLAND boasts half a hundred country - houses more magnificent than Peveril, but it would be hard to name one more charmingly situated, or more typically English. Duquesne, in his "County History of Cornwall." published in 1771, and dedicated, with permission, to his most Gracious Majesty. George III, gives several engravings of it, and retails, at some length, the history of the Peverils. who have lived there, he tells us, since the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Sir Vivian Peveril, Knight, built the house, and Queen Bess once honored it by sleeping there. He was a great favorite of hers, and it is related that she played on the spinet, to the delectation of him, his wife, and the guests assembled, after dinner that evening. Under George II, the honor of a baronetcy was conferred upon the then head of the family, and in 1766 the son of the first baronet was created Baron Peveril by George III, to whom, as I have stated, Duquesne's "County History of Cornwall" is dedicated. 
Peveril stands about a mile from the north coast, and six miles north of Truro. Bygone Peverils, who sleep in marble peace in the church and church-yard of the village, have planted what must once have been a windswept down, with trees to harbor their pheasants, right as far as the edge of the sandstone cliff, against which the Atlantic lies and suns itself in summer, and on which it springs like a hungry tiger when the north winds in winter, or the westerly gale of autumn, have wakened it. The house itself lies in a furrow of the great down, and the roar of the waves comes to it, faintly and dreamily, increasing almost, by sense of contrast, its own immunity from the unquiet winds. A gray terrace runs along the south side of the house, built in the Georgian style, and, no doubt, was the work of the first Baron Peveril, who, perhaps, felt that his house ought to record the honors done to him.  While the Peverils were baronets, they could do without a terrace; but a peer was a peer. He seems to have been a pompous old gentleman, for he always insisted that the villagers should stand bareheaded when he passed; the mere raising of the hat was not sufficiently respectful. 
But it is not of Vivian Peveril, first Baron Peveril, that I mean to tell you, but of Vivian Peveril, fourth baron, and particularly of John Peveril, his younger brother, of John's wife, Lady Violet, and their little son, Jack. 
Lord Peveril was a bachelor, and John, who was first secretary in Her Majesty's embassy at Constantinople, usually spent some weeks of his leave at Peveril with his wife. Peveril was always glad to have them there, and took a great interest in Jack, as heir apparent to the property. 
John was leaving for London that evening, on his way to Constantinople, but Lady Violet and Jack were not coming with him, for the ostensible reason that the heat would be bad for the child, and for the unspoken reason that, for some time, they had found each other's company a little irksome. The marriage, for some undefinable reason, had been an unhappy one, and they had gradually drifted apart. Their courtship had been brief and ardent; the man had fallen in love with a beautiful girl, the girl had fancied herself in love with a handsome man. The world had said that it was a splendid match for the daughter of a penniless earl, for John Peveril was certain, on the one hand, to be heir to an enormous property, and, on the other hand, to rise to the top of his profession. 

Whether or no it was Violet's fault that people had an opportunity of talking about her and Lord Stapleton, it was at any rate to her credit that they did not avail themselves of that privilege.  Slander and gossip always passed her by with folded wing and mute tongue.  It may partly have been that the world in which she lived was a little afraid of her, but apart from that she was somehow one of those women who seems to defy criticism or comment.  "She may or may not have a heart," they said; "but she has a very beautiful head, and the colour of her hair is certainly natural."
She and Lord Stapleton were sitting out after dinner, that evening, on the terrace, and enjoying the cool air. The thunderstorm had broken while they were at dinner, and Violet's sense of oppression had taken wings with it, or with the wagonette which had carried her husband to the station.

Jack went to school at Christmas, but before Easter an event had happened which brought John Peveril back to England. Early in February, Lord Peveril had been attacked by the prevalent influenza, which had settled on his lungs, and within a fortnight of the time he was taken ill, he was dead. His brother had come back from Constantinople, and Violet from St. Moritz, which she was not enjoying quite as much as she had intended to do. The air, no doubt, was charming, but one cannot remain in a state of permanent rapture over air. The skating was good: but when no one talked about anything but skating and consumption, from morning till night, it was apt to pall. Worst of all, Mrs. Riviere had been out there, and had driven Violet nearly wild.
She and her husband had gone to Peveril for the funeral, and after that came up to London. He had decided to throw up his profession and settle down in England. It would still be some years before he got an embassy, even with the best of luck, and the strictest observance of the decimation of only the fittest; meanwhile, it was hardly possible to leave everything, for an indefinite number of years, in the hands of an agent.
He and Violet did not, of course, go out at all, and one evening they were sitting alone, after dinner. Violet was more pleased to be in England again than she cared to say, and she was feeling particularly content.  Jack had gone back to school that afternoon, and it was of Jack she was thinking now.
"How he has grown," she said, "since last September."
Lord Peveril looked up from the paper be was reading.
"Who? Jack? I suppose you notice it more than I."
"I think you were right about him," she said.  "I remember you wanted to take him out with you, and I wanted to send him to school."
Peveril smiled.
"My dear Violet, what a concession!" 
She had risen from her seat, and was looking at a photograph of Jack, which had come home that day.
"He'll be exactly like you," she said, half to herself.
"He's more like poor Vivian, I think," said her husband.
Violet put the photograph down.
"Nonsense! He's not a bit like Vivian!  How did you enjoy Constantinople this winter?"
"Oh, it was like what it always is - the same people gave the same parties, and one tripped up against the same dogs in the same streets.  We all talked about exactly the same things as we talked about last year.  Those things don't ever amuse me much.  I expect you enjoyed yourself more at St. Moritz than you would have with me!"
"Possibly; but I don't know. St. Moritz bored me, rather. Every one who wasn't consumptive talked about combined figures, and every one who was, talked about temperature.  I bought a temperature thermometer, and took mine for a few days; but it was always normal."
"It's a great blessing to be normal," said he.
Violet walked up to the fire, and warmed her hands.
"I don't think I agree with you," she said.
Peveril put down his paper.
"I don't think you ever agree with me!"
Violet stopped quite still for a moment. The bitterness of her husband's tone surprised her.
"What is the matter?" she said, at length.
"Everything is the matter. I told you that the people at Constantinople all talked about the same things as they always did. That is not true: they talked about something they have never talked about before, and about which they will never talk again.  I did not mean to tell you, but you force it on me!"
"What was that?"
"They talked about you and Stapleton."
Violet flushed.
"You are intolerable. How dare you say such things to me?"
"I am telling you the truth."
"Then, why did you not tell me to come, and put a stop to it?"
"I did not suppose you would wish to come. And if I had sent for you, it would have implied that I thought there was some truth in it."
"But did you not stop it?" said VioIet.
"Naturally, they did not say these things to me; but, of course, in a place like that, they got round. When I heard of it, I stopped it."
"How did you stop it?"
"I insulted the man I knew had said it openly, and he challenged me."
"Challenged you? To a duel, do you mean?"
"That is the natural course in such cases," said Peveril.
Violet knelt down by him.
"John, why didn't you tell me? Tell me now."
"There is not much to tell.  I was not touched, but he will walk lame for a time."
Violet came a little nearer, and put her hand on his knee.
"Why did you do it? Did you know… and, oh, why didn't you tell me? Who was the man?"
"It doesn't concern you. If it did, I would tell you."
"John, you shouldn't have done it. Supposing you had been shot?"
"Don't make a scene, Violet. It is all over.  I could do no less.  You don't seem to realize ~"
He stopped suddenly, and rose, shaking her hand off rather roughly.  She remained where she was; but her eyes were troubled, and her mouth quivered a little at the corners.