Rattray’s?’
‘I was sick of it,’ said Peggy hardly, ‘dead sick.’
‘Well, then, dear –’ Mrs Pearson stopped, paused, and tried again. ‘It seems so funny, going off to live with some old lady you met on the front at Hove, instead of at home with your own mother.’
‘I’m … fond of the dogs. And she’s an old fool but she’ll let me do what I like.’
‘We all have to do that, it seems to me,’ Mrs Pearson said, sighing again; she had allowed the folds of the white scarf to slip from her head, and now looked more like any mother arguing with an unsatisfactory, much-loved daughter.
The car had left the poor streets, and was climbing towards Hampstead. The lights of London below were hidden, but they threw up such a rich glare that the thick haze was rusty with it. Leaving shops and houses behind, the car sped along the highest part of the ridge, between dark leafless trees sunk on either side in the valleys. It swerved left, towards Branch Hill.
‘I only hope it works, dear, that’s all, and Dad and I won’t have you grumbling. Is there a riding-school on the Heath, love? You’d like to go on with your riding, wouldn’t you?’ Mrs Pearson breathed, keeping her eyes fixed on the long black eye-lashes, curved like scimitars, that lay on the olive cheek. ‘Peggy – there was someone there, wasn’t there? Tell me, darling. I know there was something that happened. I can feel it, and see the horses – beautiful wild things, so fierce! – but I want to hear all about it. I am your mother. Please, Peggy?’
Now Peggy used her weapon. She neither moved nor spoke, keeping her eyes fixed on the road down which the car was running. It swung again to the left and stopped before a pair of tall wrought-iron gates standing open in a long barrier of glossy laurel and rhododendrons that shut away the outside world. All around were similar walls of foliage, silence, mist, and big leafless trees.
‘Right up to the door?’ the chauffeur suddenly demanded, in an outraged voice, half turning and looking at the women contemptuously through the window.
‘Please, George … Mr Pearson did say … he wanted …’ said Mrs Pearson, and the man, muttering something, turned the car in at the gates.
The shrubbery ended in a circular sweep of gravel before a handsome old house built of red brick, with a flight of steps leading up to the white pillars of a porch and a glass door. The most conspicuous feature of the place was a room built out over a lawn to the left, whose windows, through a screen of trees, overlooked the surprisingly abrupt drop of a near-by valley. It was filled with the motionless lights of a long main road, the moving ones of a procession of cars, and the house lights of a large, scattered suburb.
The chauffeur stopped the engine and Peggy, alighting, grasped two large and heavy cases and lifted them without apparent effort.
‘Isn’t that heavy for you?’ Mrs Pearson almost whispered, and Peggy shook her head impatiently, as she opened the door of the car. The chauffeur merely sat, ignoring them both. Peggy set the cases down, shut the door and put her head in at the window.
‘Good-bye, mother – au revoir , rather. I’ll write in a day or two. When do you move in?’
‘Oh, soon. Soon, I expect. I don’t know – Dad will see to everything. Good-bye, my lovey, take care of yourself.’
‘Bye-bye,’ said Peggy, making a little face that was teasing and almost affectionate, then turned away.
Mrs Pearson sat still for a moment, watching her walk easily up the steps, with a case in each hand, towards the glass door between the pillars. Then, starting, as if out of some painful dream, she leant forward and said to the chauffeur, ‘Could we go home now, George, please?’ and at the timid request he started the engine and drove away.
Peggy put down the cases, and rang the bell.
The freshness of the white paint and the soft brilliance of MacLeod House’s brass pleased
‘I was sick of it,’ said Peggy hardly, ‘dead sick.’
‘Well, then, dear –’ Mrs Pearson stopped, paused, and tried again. ‘It seems so funny, going off to live with some old lady you met on the front at Hove, instead of at home with your own mother.’
‘I’m … fond of the dogs. And she’s an old fool but she’ll let me do what I like.’
‘We all have to do that, it seems to me,’ Mrs Pearson said, sighing again; she had allowed the folds of the white scarf to slip from her head, and now looked more like any mother arguing with an unsatisfactory, much-loved daughter.
The car had left the poor streets, and was climbing towards Hampstead. The lights of London below were hidden, but they threw up such a rich glare that the thick haze was rusty with it. Leaving shops and houses behind, the car sped along the highest part of the ridge, between dark leafless trees sunk on either side in the valleys. It swerved left, towards Branch Hill.
‘I only hope it works, dear, that’s all, and Dad and I won’t have you grumbling. Is there a riding-school on the Heath, love? You’d like to go on with your riding, wouldn’t you?’ Mrs Pearson breathed, keeping her eyes fixed on the long black eye-lashes, curved like scimitars, that lay on the olive cheek. ‘Peggy – there was someone there, wasn’t there? Tell me, darling. I know there was something that happened. I can feel it, and see the horses – beautiful wild things, so fierce! – but I want to hear all about it. I am your mother. Please, Peggy?’
Now Peggy used her weapon. She neither moved nor spoke, keeping her eyes fixed on the road down which the car was running. It swung again to the left and stopped before a pair of tall wrought-iron gates standing open in a long barrier of glossy laurel and rhododendrons that shut away the outside world. All around were similar walls of foliage, silence, mist, and big leafless trees.
‘Right up to the door?’ the chauffeur suddenly demanded, in an outraged voice, half turning and looking at the women contemptuously through the window.
‘Please, George … Mr Pearson did say … he wanted …’ said Mrs Pearson, and the man, muttering something, turned the car in at the gates.
The shrubbery ended in a circular sweep of gravel before a handsome old house built of red brick, with a flight of steps leading up to the white pillars of a porch and a glass door. The most conspicuous feature of the place was a room built out over a lawn to the left, whose windows, through a screen of trees, overlooked the surprisingly abrupt drop of a near-by valley. It was filled with the motionless lights of a long main road, the moving ones of a procession of cars, and the house lights of a large, scattered suburb.
The chauffeur stopped the engine and Peggy, alighting, grasped two large and heavy cases and lifted them without apparent effort.
‘Isn’t that heavy for you?’ Mrs Pearson almost whispered, and Peggy shook her head impatiently, as she opened the door of the car. The chauffeur merely sat, ignoring them both. Peggy set the cases down, shut the door and put her head in at the window.
‘Good-bye, mother – au revoir , rather. I’ll write in a day or two. When do you move in?’
‘Oh, soon. Soon, I expect. I don’t know – Dad will see to everything. Good-bye, my lovey, take care of yourself.’
‘Bye-bye,’ said Peggy, making a little face that was teasing and almost affectionate, then turned away.
Mrs Pearson sat still for a moment, watching her walk easily up the steps, with a case in each hand, towards the glass door between the pillars. Then, starting, as if out of some painful dream, she leant forward and said to the chauffeur, ‘Could we go home now, George, please?’ and at the timid request he started the engine and drove away.
Peggy put down the cases, and rang the bell.
The freshness of the white paint and the soft brilliance of MacLeod House’s brass pleased