Mrs. Duff-Whalley, how are you? Have you kept Priorsford lively through the Christmas-time, you and your daughter?"
"Well, I was just telling Jean we've done our best. My son Gordon, and his Cambridge friends, delightful young fellows, you know, perfect gentlemen. But we did miss you and your brother. Is dear Lord Bidborough not with you?"
"My brother has gone to London."
"Naturally," said Mrs. Duff-Whalley, nodding her head knowingly. "All young men like London, so gay, you know, restaurants and theatres and night-clubs—"
"Oh, I hope not," laughed Pamela. "My brother's rather extraordinary; he cares very little for London pleasures. The open road is all he asks—a born gipsy."
"Fancy! Well, it's a nice taste too. But I would rather ride in my car than tramp the roads. I like my comforts. Muriel and I are going to London shortly, on our way to the Continent. Will you be there, Miss Reston?"
"Probably, and if I am Jean will be with me. Do you hear that, Jean?" and paying no attention to the dubious shake of Jean's head she went on: "We must give Jean a very good time and have lots of parties. Perhaps, Mrs. Duff-Whalley, you will bring your daughter to one of Jean's parties when you are in London? You have been so very kind to us that we should greatly like to have an opportunity of showing you some hospitality. Do let us know your whereabouts. It would be fun—wouldn't it, Jean?—to entertain Priorsford friends in London."
For a moment Mrs. Duff-Whalley looked very like a ferret that wanted to bite; then she smiled and said:
"Well, really, it's most kind of you. I'm sure Jean should be very grateful to you. You're a kind of fairy godmother to this little Cinderella. Only Jean must remember that it isn't very nice to come back to drudgery after an hour or two at the ball," and she gave an unpleasant laugh.
"Ah, but you forget your fairy tale," said Pamela. "Cinderella had a happy ending. She wasn't left to the drudgery, but reigned with the prince in the palace."
"It's hardly polite surely," Muriel put in, "to liken poor little Jean to a cinder-witch."
Jean laughed and held out a foot in a shabby slipper. "I've felt like one all day. It's been such a grubby day, no kitchen range on, no hot water, and Mrs. M'Cosh actually out of temper. Now you've come, Pamela, it will be all right—but it has been wretched. I hadn't the spirit to change my frock or put on decent slippers, that's why I've reminded you all of Cinderella…. Are you going, Mrs. Duff-Whalley? Good-bye."
Mrs. Duff-Whalley had, with an effort, regained her temper, and was now all smiles.
"We must see you often at The Towers while you are in Priorsford, dear Miss Reston. Muriel and I are on our way to tea with Lady Tweedie. She will be so excited to hear you are back. You have made quite a place for yourself in our little circle. Good-bye, Jean, we shall be seeing you some time. Come, Muriel. Well—t'ta."
When the visitors had rolled away in their car Jean told Pamela about Peter.
"I couldn't tell you before those opulent, well-pleased people. It's absolutely breaking our hearts. Mrs. M'Cosh looks ten years older, and Jock and Mhor go about quite silent thinking out wicked things to do to relieve their feelings. David has gone over all the hills looking for him, but he may be lying trapped in some wood. Come and speak to Mrs. M'Cosh for a minute. Between Peter and the boiler she is in despair."
They found Mrs. M'Cosh baking with the gas oven.
"It's a scone for the tea. When I seen Miss Reston it kinna cheered me up. Hae ye tell't her aboot Peter?"
"He will turn up yet, Mrs. M'Cosh," Pamela assured her. "Peter's such a clever dog, he won't let himself be beat. Even if he is trapped I believe he will manage to get out."
"It's to be hoped so, for the want o' him is something awful."
A knock came to the back door and a boy's voice said, "Is Peter in?" It was a message boy who knew all Peter's tricks—knew that however friendly Peter was with a message boy on the road, he felt constrained to jump out at him when he appeared at the back door with a basket. The innocent question was too much for Mrs. M'Cosh.
"Na," she said bitterly. "Peter's no' in, so ye needna hold on to the door. Peter's lost. Deid, as likely as not." She turned away in bitterness of heart, leaving Jean to take the parcels from the boy.
The boys came in quietly after another fruitless search. They did not ask hopefully, as they had done at first, if Peter had come home, and Jean did not ask how they had fared.
The sight of Pamela cheered them a good deal.
"Does she know?" Jock asked, and Jean nodded.
Pamela kept the talk going through tea, and told them so many funny stories that they had to laugh.
"If only," said Mhor, "Peter was here now the Honourable's back we would be happy."
"There's a big box of hard chocolates behind that cushion," Pamela said, pointing to the sofa.
It was at that moment that the door opened, and Mrs. M'Cosh put her head in. Her face wore a broad smile.
"The wanderer has returned," she said.
At that moment Jean thought the Glasgow accent the most delightful thing on earth and the smile on Mrs. M'Cosh's face the most beautiful. With a shout they all made for the kitchen.
There was Peter, thin and dirty, but in excellent spirits, wagging his tail so violently that his whole body wagged.
"See," said Mrs. M'Cosh, "he's been in a trap, but he's gotten out. Peter's a cliver lad."
Jock and Mhor had no words. They lay on the linoleum-covered floor while Mrs. M'Cosh fetched hot milk, and crushed their faces against the little black-and-white body they had thought they might never see again, while Peter licked his own torn paw and their faces in turn.
It was wonderfully comfortable to see Pamela settle down in the corner of the sofa with her embroidery and ask news of all her friends. Jean had been a little shy of meeting Pamela, wondering if Lord Bidborough had told her anything, wondering if she were angry that Jean should have had such an offer, or resentful that she had refused it. But Pamela talked quite naturally about her brother, and gave no hint that she knew of any reason why Jean should blush when his name was mentioned.
"And how are all the people—the Jowetts and the Watsons and the Dawsons? And the dear Macdonalds? I picked up a book in Edinburgh that I think Mr. Macdonald will like. And Lewis Elliot—have you seen him lately, Jean?"
"He's away. Didn't you know? He went just after you did. He was in London at Christmas—at least, that was the postmark on the parcels, but he has never written a word. He was always a bad correspondent, but he'll turn up one of these days."
Mrs. M'Cosh came in with the letters from the evening post.
"Actually a letter for me," said Jean, "from London. I expect it's from that landlord of ours. Surely he won't be giving us notice to leave The Rigs. Pamela, I'm afraid to open it. It looks like a lawyer's letter."
"Open it then."
Jean opened it slowly and read the enclosure with a puzzled frown; then she dropped it with a cry.
Pamela
