§ 3
The drawing-room was just as it had always been.... The same heavy dignity of line in the old walls and oak-ribbed ceiling spoilt by undue crowding of pictures and furniture. Hothouse flowers stood about in pots and filled vases innumerable ... a water-colour portrait of himself as a child faced him as he came into the room.
“Peter, my darling!”
His mother’s arms were stretched out to him from the sofa—she did not rise, and he knelt down beside her for a moment, letting her enfold him and furiously creating for himself the illusion of a mother he had never known. The illusion seemed to dissipate in a faint scent of lavender water.
“How strange you look out of uniform—I suppose that’s a new suit.”
“Well, I could scarcely have got into my pre-war clothes. I weigh thirteen stone.”
“Quite the heavy Squire,” said Sir John. “Come here and let’s have a look at you.”
Peter went over and stood before his father’s chair—rather like a little boy. As it happened he was a man of thirty-six, tallish, well-built, with a dark, florid face, dark hair and a small dark moustache. In contrast his eyes were of an astounding blue—Saxon eyes, the eyes of Alards who had gone to the Crusades, melted down their plate for the White King, refused to take the oath of allegiance to Dutch William; eyes which for long generations had looked out on the marshes of Winchelsea, and had seen the mouth of the Rother swept in spate from Romney sands to Rye.
“Um,” said Sir John.
“Having a bad turn again, Sir?”
“Getting over it—I’ll be about tomorrow.”
“That’s right, and how’s Mother?”
“I’m better today, dear. But Dr. Mount said he really was frightened last week—I’ve never had such an attack.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me? I could have come down earlier.”
“I wanted to have you sent for, dear, but the children wouldn’t let me.”
The children, as represented by George Alard and his wife, threw a baffled glance at Peter, seeking to convey that the “attack” had been the usual kind of indigestion which Lady Alard liked to enoble by the name of Angina Pectoris.
Meanwhile, Wills the butler and a young footman were bringing in the tea. Jenny poured it out, the exertion being considered too great for her mother. Peter’s eyes rested on her favourably; she was the one thing in the room, barring the beautiful, delicate flowers, that gave him any real pleasure to look at. She was a large, graceful creature, with a creamy skin, wide, pale mouth, and her mother’s eyes of speckled brown. Her big, beautifully shaped hands moved with a slow grace among the teacups. In contrast with her Doris looked raddled (though she really was moderate and skillful in the make-up of her face and hair) and Rose looked blowsy. He felt glad of Jenny’s youth—soft, slow, asleep.
“Where’s Mary?” he asked suddenly, “I thought she was coming down.”
“Not till New Year’s eve. Julian can’t come with her, and naturally he didn’t want her to be away for Christmas.”
“And how is the great Julian?”
“I don’t know—Mary didn’t say. She hardly ever tells us anything in her letters.”
The door opened and the butler announced—
“Dr. Mount has come to see her ladyship.”
“Oh, Dr. Mount” ... cried Peter, springing up.
“He’s waiting in the morning room, my lady.”
“Show him in here—you’d like him to come in, wouldn’t you, Mother?”
“Yes, of course, dear, but I expect he’ll have had his tea.”
“He can have another. Anyhow, I’d like to see him—I missed him last leave.”
He crossed over to the window. Outside in the drive a small green Singer car stood empty.
“Did Stella drive him over?—She would never stay outside.”
“I can’t see anyone—Hello, doctor—glad you’ve come—have some tea.”
Dr. Mount came into the room. He was a short, healthy little man, dressed in country tweeds, and with the flat whiskers of an old-time squire. He seemed genuinely delighted to see Peter.
“Back from the wars? Well, you’ve had some luck. They say it’ll be more than a year before everyone’s demobbed. You look splendid, doesn’t he, Lady Alard?”
“Yes—Peter always was healthy, you know.”
“I must say he hasn’t given me much trouble. I’d be a poor man if everyone was like him. How’s the wound, Peter? I don’t suppose you even think of it now.”
“I can’t say I do—it never was much. Didn’t Stella drive you over?”
“No—there’s a lot of medicine to make up, so I left her busy in the dispensary.”
“What a useful daughter to have,” sighed Lady Alard. “She can do everything—drive the car, make up medicines——”
“Work in the garden and cook me a thundering good dinner besides!” The little doctor beamed. “I expect she’ll be over here before long, she’ll be wanting to see Peter. She’d have come today if there han’t been such a lot to do.”
Peter put down his teacup and walked over again to the window. Rose Alard and her husband exchanged another of those meaning looks which they found a useful conversational currency.