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THE HALL AND THE GRANGE




BY THE SAME AUTHOR


  THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES
  RICHARD BALDOCK
  EXTON MANOR
  THE SQUIRE'S DAUGHTER
  THE ELDEST SON
  THE HONOUR OF THE CLINTONS
  THE GREATEST OF THESE
  THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH
  WATERMEADS
  UPSIDONIA
  ABINGTON ABBEY
  THE GRAFTONS
  THE CLINTONS, AND OTHERS
  SIR HARRY
  MANY JUNES
  A SPRING WALK IN PROVENCE
  PEGGY IN TOYLAND
  THE HALL AND THE GRANGE




THE HALL AND THE GRANGE

A NOVEL


BY
ARCHIBALD MARSHALL


[Illustration]


NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1921




COPYRIGHT, 1921
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.




TO
WILLIAM LYON PHELPS




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                                           PAGE
       I THE HALL                                                      1
      II THE GRANGE                                                   11
     III NORMAN                                                       23
      IV PAMELA                                                       40
       V THE FAMILY                                                   53
      VI BARTON'S CLOSE                                               67
     VII YOUNG PEOPLE                                                 79
    VIII WELLSBURY                                                    92
      IX LETTERS                                                     108
       X RECONCILIATION                                              122
      XI A QUESTION OF LABOUR                                        139
     XII NEW IDEAS                                                   154
    XIII DISCUSSION                                                  169
     XIV CHURCH AND AFTER                                            181
      XV THE RIFT                                                    197
     XVI CRISIS                                                      211
    XVII HONOURS                                                     221
   XVIII FRED COMFREY                                                234
     XIX INVESTIGATION                                               249
      XX A QUESTION OF FINANCE                                       262
     XXI PERSHORE CASTLE                                             271
    XXII A SUMMER AFTERNOON                                          285
   XXIII APPROACHES                                                  302
    XXIV ALMOST                                                      316
     XXV MISS BALDWIN LOOKS ON                                       328
    XXVI BEFORE CHRISTMAS                                            343
   XXVII TWO YOUNG MEN                                               353
  XXVIII AND THE THIRD                                               366
    XXIX THE NEW CHAPTER                                             378
     XXX THE TRODDEN WAY                                             388
    XXXI AN ENDING AND A BEGINNING                                   401




THE HALL AND THE GRANGE




CHAPTER I

THE HALL


Colonel Eldridge was enjoying an afternoon doze, or a series of dozes,
in the Sabbath peace of his garden. His enjoyment was positive, for he
had a prejudice against sleeping in the day-time, and sat upright in his
basket chair with no support to his head; so that when sleep began to
overtake him he nodded heavily and woke up again. If he had provided
himself with a cushion from one of the chairs or lounges by his side, he
would have slumbered blissfully, but would have been lost to the charm
of his surroundings.

These included a great expanse of lawn, mown and rolled and tended to a
sheeny perfection of soft rich colour; the deep shade of nobly branching
trees in their dark dress of mid-July; bright flower-beds; the terraced
front of a squarely built stone house of a comfortably established age.
These were for the eye to rest upon after one of those heavy nods, and
to carry their message of spacious seclusion and domestic well-being.
For the other senses there were messages that conveyed the same
meaning--the hot brooding peace of the July afternoon, tempered by the
soft stirring of flower-scented breezes, the drone of bees and of
insects less usefully employed, the occasional sweet pipe of birds still
mindful of earlier courtships, the grateful and secure absence of less
mundane sounds. The house was empty, except for servants, who obtruded
themselves neither on sight nor hearing. The tennis net on the levelled
space by the rose garden hung in idle curves. Colonel Eldridge had the
whole wide verdurous garden to himself, and the house, too, if he cared
to enter it. Though he liked to have his family around him as a general
rule, he found it pleasant to keep his own company thus for an hour or
so.

He was just approaching the time when one of those droops which
punctuated his light slumbers would wake him up to a more lively sense
of well-being, and he would take up the book that lay on his knee, when
his half-closed eyes took in a figure emerging from the trees among
which the lawn lost itself at the lower end of the garden. He aroused
himself and waved a welcoming hand, which meant among other things:
"Here you have a wide-awake man reading a book on Sunday afternoon, but
you need not be afraid of disturbing him." The grateful lassitude,
however, which enveloped his frame prevented his rising to greet his
brother, who came towards him with an answering wave of the hand, and
took a seat by his side.

There was not much difference in the age of the two brothers, which was
somewhere in the fifties. In appearance, also, they were something
alike, of the same height and build, and with the same air of wearing
their years well. Colonel Eldridge had the military caste impressed upon
him, with closely cropped hair underneath his straw hat, small grey
moustache, and a little net-work of wrinkles about his keen blue eyes.
His clothes were neat and unobtrusive, as of a man who gets the best
tailoring and leaves it at that.

Sir William Eldridge also, quite obviously, got the best tailoring. He
wore a suit of soft brown, with boots polished to an enviable pitch; the
narrow sleeves of his jacket, ornamented with four buttons, showed the
doubled-over cuffs of his blue flannel shirt, fastened with enamelled
links; a gay bandana tie heightened the agreeable contrast of blue and
brown; his soft felt hat was of light grey, with a black band. With a
new pair of chamois leather gloves he would have been beautifully
dressed for any occasion that did not demand a silk hat and whatever
should go with it. But he wore or carried no gloves for a walk of half a
mile across the fields, by the river, from Hayslope Grange, where he
lived, to Hayslope Hall, his brother's house. He had the same regularity
of feature as his brother; his hair was a shade or two greyer, but he
looked some years younger, with his fresh skin and his active figure.
There was almost an exuberance about him. If Colonel Eldridge had
allowed his hair to grow longer than convention demanded, it would only
have looked as if it wanted cutting. If Sir William had done so it would
have seemed natural to his type.

"Been having a little nap?" he said, as he dropped into a chair by his
brother's side.

Colonel Eldridge flinched ever so little. His strict regard for truth
forbade him to deny the charge, but it should not have been brought
against him. "Couldn't have much of a nap sitting up in a chair like
this," he said, rather brusquely.

Sir William ignored this. "How jolly and peaceful it is here," he said.
"Really, I don't know a more delicious garden than this anywhere. It
would take a hundred years to produce just this effect at the Grange,
though I've spent pots of money over the gardens there."

"Gardening with a golden spade," said his brother. "You can't do
everything with money."

"You can do a good deal. And if you've got big trees you can do
practically everything. The misfortune about the Grange is that there
are no big trees immediately around the house. If there had been I
should have aimed at something of this sort. I could have got the lawn
all right. It's the best sort of garden to look out on--an expanse of
lawn and shady trees--quiet and green and peaceful. You're quite right,
Edmund. With all I've done, and all I've spent on my garden, it's fussy
compared to this. You remember I wanted you to do certain things here,
when I first got keen on the game. Well, I'm glad you didn't. If you
had, I should have wanted you to undo them by this time."

Colonel Eldridge smiled, his momentary pique forgotten. "Oh, well,
people come miles to see your garden," he said. "It's worth seeing. But
on the whole I'd rather have this one to live in."

"Ah, that's it; you've just hit it. There's all the difference between a
garden to look at and a garden to live in. I've come to see that, and I
suppose you've always seen it. I generally do come around to your views
in the long run, old fellow. In this matter of a lawn shaded by trees,
I've come round so completely that I've got to have it, though I'm
afraid I can't have it to walk straight out of the house onto, and to
look at from my windows. But there's that four-acre field--Barton's
Close--down by the wood. I want to bring that in--I suppose you'll have
no objection. By thinning out a bit, so as to leave some of the bigger
trees isolated, and planting judiciously, I can get the effect there."

"Rather a pity to cut up old pasture, isn't it? And it must be half a
mile from the house."

"Oh, nothing like as much as that--not more than five hundred yards, I
should say. I wish it were nearer; but it will be effective to lead down
to it by a path through the corner of the wood. You'll come upon a
charming, restful, retired place that you hadn't been expecting. I only
wish the lake had been closer, so as to have brought that in; but I
think we could get a vista by cutting down a few trees. I might ask you
to consider that later on; but we'd better see how the lawn turns out
first."

"I don't think I should want to cut down trees there, William. Whatever
distance Barton's Close may be from the Grange, the lake is certainly
over a mile. You can't turn the whole place into a garden. As it is,
it's overweighted. You've got to consider the future. It would have been
all right if poor Hugo had lived. He'd have succeeded me here, and I
suppose Norman would have gone on living at the Grange after you."

"Oh, I know, old fellow, but--"

"Let me finish. When I die, and you or Norman come here, Cynthia and the
girls will have to live at the Grange. It's much too big a place for
them already. I dare say you'd get a big rent for it; but that's not
what they'll want. They would have had enough to live on there as it
used to be; but with the way things are going now it'll be a place that
will want a lot of keeping up. It will want a good deal more keeping up
than this."

"Of course you're right to think about the future, old fellow." Sir
William spoke more slowly, leaning forward in his chair with his elbows
on his knees and tapping his stick on the turf. "I've thought about it a
good deal, too. Things are altered now--unfortunately. I come into it
more, don't I?--I and Norman."

"Oh, yes, of course. Still, I'm not an old man yet. And Cynthia.... It's
not out of the question.... But we needn't think of that. The chances
are you'll succeed me. But for a good many years yet--in the ordinary
way--I shall be here at Hayslope, and--"

He did not finish, and Sir William did not help him out. He frowned a
little as he sat looking down on the grass and tapping his stick, but
there was no alteration in the kindly tone of his speech when he said
after a time: "If Cynthia bears you another son, nobody will be more
pleased than I shall. Some people might think I didn't mean that, but
you know better. That's why we can talk over the future between us
without misunderstanding one another."

Colonel Eldridge stirred in his seat. "Oh, yes, Bill," he said. "You
don't want to step into my shoes yet a while. I know that well enough.
You will step into them sooner or later. I know that, too. We shan't
have any more children. And as for what's to come after us, Norman will
make a better squire of Hayslope than poor Hugo could have done. I
wouldn't say so to Cynthia--I don't know that I'd say it to anybody but
you--but I've come to see that the poor fellow had made too much of a
mess of things for us to have hoped that he'd ever pull up. I feel no
bitterness against him--God knows. I did; but that's all wiped out. I
loved him when he was a little fellow, and I never really left off
loving him, though he brought me a lot of trouble. Now I'm free to love
his memory. He did well at the end."

"Oh, yes. You can be proud of him. There was lots of good in him, and it
came out at the last. No need to think about all the rest. I haven't
thought about it for a long time."

"Well, I've got to think of it occasionally, I'm afraid. Things are
still difficult because of poor Hugo. But--"

"Look here, old fellow--why don't you let me wipe all that off? I can do
it without bothering myself in the least."

"Thanks, Bill, you're very good. But I'll bear my own burdens."

"Between you and me--what is there to quibble about? I've been lucky in
life. But you're a better man than I am, when all's said and done. And
you're the head of the family. We ought to stand together--'specially
now, when I'm almost in the same position towards you as Hugo was, you
might say. Take it as done for Hayslope. In a way, I'm as much
interested in the place as you are."

"Thanks, William, but this is a personal matter. Most of my income comes
from the place, but I'm only tenant for life. I've got to make good on
my own account. It means a bit of skimping, but that's all. There's
enough for me and Cynthia and the girls, and I'll hand over Hayslope to
you, or whoever it may be, as I received it from our father."

"Well, I won't press you. But you know at any time that the money's
there if you want it, and you'll give me pleasure if you'll take it.
What's money between you and me? I've been in the way of making it and
you haven't. There you have it in a nutshell. But after all, I'm not a
money-grubber. I only care for it for what it will bring. It's at your
service any time, Edmund--five thousand, ten thousand--whatever you want
to clear off that old trouble. Take it from me, that you'll be doing me
a real pleasure if you'll ask for it at any time. Are you coming over to
tea? I promised Eleanor I'd get back. I think there'll be some people
from the Castle."

He rose from his seat. Colonel Eldridge retained his. "I don't think
I'll come, thanks," he said, with a slight frown. "I don't particularly
care about meeting people from the Castle."

Sir William looked away. There was a slight frown on his face now, but
not of annoyance. "I know it's rather difficult for you," he said. "But
wouldn't it be better to face it? You must meet them sooner or later.
And as far as they are concerned, it's all over. There'd be no real
awkwardness. As a matter of fact I don't think that the Crowboroughs are
coming themselves. It's the Branchleys--who are staying with them. If
they do come, there'd be more or less of a crowd--with all the young
people. You'd get over the first meeting, and then it would all be
buried."

"I know I've got to meet them some time or other. I know that
Crowborough did have cause for complaint against Hugo. But he went much
too far, and I can never forget it, now the poor boy's dead."

"You couldn't have forgotten it if he hadn't taken back the worst of
what he accused Hugo of. I admit that. But he did take it back, didn't
he?"

"Well, did he? That's what I'm not so sure about. I've got to behave as
if he did--I know that. If we were to have it out together again,
there's likely to be such a row that we should be enemies for life. I
don't want that, for the sake of Cynthia and the girls. I suppose he
doesn't want it, either, or he wouldn't have tried to mend the row we
did have."

"But, surely--"

"I know what you're going to say. He wrote and said he'd never intended
to accuse Hugo of swindling young Horsham. It was the way I'd taken what
he did say that made him lose his temper and go farther than he'd meant
to. That's all very well. But he didn't withdraw the charge."

There was a look of perplexity on Sir William's face as he stood by his
brother, preparing to leave him, but not to leave the discussion into
which they had so lightly drifted with a ragged edge of uncertainty.
"Poor Hugo!" he said. "He made trouble for you, Edmund--for all of us.
It's all forgiven and ought to be forgotten. But where it remains alive
it ought to be faced, oughtn't it? He did lead Jim Horsham into bad
ways. You've admitted as much as that."

"Yes, I did admit it. It was bad enough. But to lay that a son of mine
cheated a brother officer out of a large sum of money--! That was the
accusation."

"Crowborough made it when he was worked up about what he had discovered,
and he withdrew it."

It was Colonel Eldridge who ended the discussion, and allowed his
brother to go free. "Well, that's what we began with," he said. "I'm
ready to act on the supposition that he did withdraw it. But I don't
feel inclined to meet him this afternoon, William. Thanks all the same."

Sir William took his departure. His brother watched his smart, alert
figure crossing the lawn, until it was lost among the trees at the
bottom of the garden. Then he rose and sauntered slowly towards the
house, and his face was thoughtful and disturbed--more disturbed than
the previous conversation might have seemed to warrant.




CHAPTER II

THE GRANGE


Sir William Eldridge, with a step wonderfully light and quick for a man
of his years and weight, came out of his brother's garden by a gate that
led to a woodland path, and so down a long slope under the thick shade
of trees, till the wood gave place to an open meadow bordered by a
placid-flowing stream--almost a river. The meadow sloped up to the high
woods which enclosed it in a long crescent, but on the other side of the
stream was open grass-land, with lines of willows here and there, dykes,
and little bits of wooden fences. Cattle were dotted all over it,
feeding peacefully in the hot afternoon sunshine, or recumbent on the
rich turf. In the distance were more woods, and where the river took a
turn and followed the contour of the hill in front, it was seen to be
flowing towards a lake of considerable size, to judge by the growth of
the trees which encircled and hid all but the nearer end of it.

The river path continued for a quarter of a mile or so, and then once
more became a woodland path, turning sharply to the left and rising more
steeply than it had dropped in the other wood. The exit there had been
by a stile, not as firm as it might have been under the weight of a big
man. But this entrance was by a closely fitting gate, and a new solid
fence ran away to right and left of it, gate and fence alike carrying
an elaborate wire defence against rabbits.

Sir William climbed the steep path, slowly, but not, apparently, because
of any necessity to save his breath. He looked to right and left of him
with interest at the plantings of shrubs and flowers and ferns that had
been made in clearings under the trees. On the outside this was a thick
wood, as the other had been; but once through the gate it was seen to be
a garden, full of interest and surprise. Little winding paths led off
from the main ascent, and Sir William followed one or two of these to
look at some treasure that he had established, and lingered over it as
if his chief interest in life were the planting and the growth of
flowers.

The steep path became a rocky staircase, which emerged from the wood
into an elaborate rock garden, so artfully constructed that it seemed
almost a natural outcrop from the leafy soil. On the further side the
trees closed in on it again, but they had been still further thinned out
here and did not conceal the artificially flat expanse of tennis and
croquet lawn upon which the path came somewhat too suddenly. Immediately
beyond the lawn was a house--a long rambling structure of many-gabled
red brick and tile, with rose-covered verandas, loggias, pergolas, and
all the paraphernalia of a rich man's country cottage. The original
house, of a date somewhere about the seventies, was ugly enough, and had
never pretended to be a cottage; and the additions, though in much
better architectural taste, were incongruous to it. But it might have
been supposed, even from an outside view, that everything about this
house would be of the highest possible convenience for a life of country
pleasure, and that if anything should occur to its occupants that would
improve its amenities in this respect it would promptly be supplied.

Four young people were playing lawn tennis, and four older people were
playing croquet, as Sir William came within sight of the lawn, and on
the broad pillared veranda which finished off the house at this end
other people were sitting, and servants were arranging tea-tables. House
and garden seemed to be fulfiling their purpose with these groups of
people laughing and talking and playing games in the summer afternoon,
and everything at hand to enhance their enjoyment. Sir William's face
lightened as he waved his greetings. He loved these lively gatherings of
the summer time. He had something to offer at Hayslope Grange that
people found it worth while to seek out and enjoy. There was more coming
and going between the Grange and Pershore Castle, the Earl of
Crowborough's seat five miles away, than between the Castle and Hayslope
Hall, although the two families had run neck and neck in this part of
the country for generations, and intimacy had established itself between
their two houses almost to the exclusion of others.

It was with Lord Crowborough that Sir William walked down to the meadow
which he wanted to bring into his garden, while the rest of the party
were still busy round the tea-tables. Lord Crowborough was a man of
sixty, heavy in bulk and somewhat heavy in demeanour, though with a
kindly expression of face and of speech that relieved him of the charge
of pomposity. He was disturbed, it appeared, at the coolness that had
arisen between him and his old friend and neighbour, Edmund Eldridge,
and wanted a word about it alone with Sir William. "Such old friends!"
was the burden of his regrets. And he enlarged on it: "Surely such old
friends ought to be able to speak freely to one another--even lose their
tempers; we both did that, but surely--"

Sir William was more silent under the complaints than would have seemed
to be natural to him. "It was the charge of swindling," he said rather
shortly.

"Oh, I know," said Lord Crowborough. "After all your kindness, one
doesn't want--"

"Never mind about that," Sir William interrupted him almost
peremptorily. There was a hint in his manner that spoke of another man
than the one who grew his flowers and welcomed his friends at Hayslope
Grange. Lord Crowborough, some years older, and of greater apparent
importance, seemed to bow to it. "I know it was never to be mentioned,"
he said, apologetically. "Very well. But really, you know, William--!
Well, the poor fellow's dead; but he was an out and out wrong 'un. I did
do my best to hush it all up. Edmund must know that. If it had come out
he'd have been kicked out of the regiment. I should think he must know
that, too, if he thinks straight about it at all."

"Perhaps he doesn't think quite straight about it, poor old chap! You
can hardly blame him. As far as I'm concerned I'm going to do all I can
to encourage him to think that Hugo was just sowing his wild oats, and
that he'd have settled down to be a credit to his name. I'm afraid it
isn't true, but surely it's a good thing if Edmund can think so."

"Oh, yes, I quite agree. Poor old fellow! I'll ask him to dine. I
remember him quite well as a little fellow--you too, of course. I
believe I was even a sort of hero of his when I was a big boy and he was
a little one."

Sir William laughed. "Of course you were," he said. "I think that's the
line to go on, you know. Old times, and all that. At least, I shouldn't
mention the affair again, if I were you. Treat him with--well,
affection. I know you feel that for him. The row will pass over. He's
sore all round. He's sore about Hugo. He's a little sore about my
stepping into the position of heir to him--though, goodness knows,
_I've_ no wish to change places with him in any way."

"No, you've made yourself a bigger man than he is."

"Well, that's as may be. Anyhow, I'm in a different line altogether.
He's nothing to be sore about there; and we stick together. I can help
him in lots of ways, if he'll let me."

"He's stiff about things; he's got stiffer as he's got older."

"Yes, that's true. He's the military type; and going back to his old job
during the war has brought it out in him, more than ever. Still, I know
well enough how to deal with men of that sort--had lots of practice at
it lately. And Edmund's my brother. I'm fond of him. In some ways I
look up to him; he's straight and honest as the day. And he's
affectionate, too, under his stiffness. You can't drive him, but you can
lead him, if you're careful in the way you do it. Hold out a hand to
him, Crowborough. He'll respond all right, and you'll soon git rid of
_that_ soreness."

They strolled back to the upper garden together, and Lord Crowborough
lost no time in goading his wife into asking Mrs. Eldridge to dine. It
was necessary to detach her from the side of Lady Eldridge and draw her
a little aside, and it was plain to everybody that something in the way
of pressure was being exercised. Lady Crowborough did not want to invite
the Eldridges. She was more incensed against Colonel Eldridge than her
husband, and had no memory of intimacies of early childhood to soften
her towards him. However, she obeyed her husband, as a good wife should.
She had not yet had any conversation with Mrs. Eldridge, and might even
have been supposed to have avoided her. But she went straight up to her
and said: "We haven't really seen anything of each other for months. I
wish you and your husband and Pamela would come over and dine to-morrow
evening. Lord and Lady Branchley aren't going until Tuesday, and I've
asked the Hobkirks and one or two other people."

Mrs. Eldridge looked up at her from the cushioned chair in which she was
sitting, so very much at her ease, showing the neatest feet and ankles
under her short-skirted summer frock. A wonderful woman for her age, it
was the custom to say of her. Her age might have been forty-five, but
she looked at least ten years younger than that, and on some occasions
younger still. There was not a thread of grey in her rippling, lustrous
brown hair; her cheeks were softly rounded, her skin was fresh. She wore
a large flowery hat, which accentuated the graceful slimness of her
form. She looked up at Lady Crowborough, looming profusely above her,
out of untroubled blue eyes. "Thanks so much," she said. "I'm not sure
what Edmund is doing to-morrow. Pamela and I could come. I could let you
know if _he_ can't."

Lady Crowborough grunted. She was a tall, upright woman with a
decorative façade, and seemed to have been formed by nature to play the
part of a great lady. But there was something lacking in her equipment.
She was easily flustered, and when confronted with any difficulty seemed
to lose even in physical bulk. "Crowborough particularly wanted me to
ask Colonel Eldridge," she said in a tone that did not carry out the
promise of the preliminary grunt.

"So I saw," said Mrs. Eldridge, with unbaffled sweetness. "It was very
good of him. I don't see in the least why he shouldn't come, but it's
never safe to make promises for him. If you don't want me and Pamela
without him--"

"Oh, of course I do, if he _can't_ come. Yes, of course I shall be
delighted. It's really ages since we saw anything of one another."

She suddenly became friendly and confidential, dropping into a seat next
to Mrs. Eldridge's, and demanding her ear for a low-spoken account of
the trouble she had been going through with a laundry maid who had
unwisely loved a Canadian soldier. Mrs. Eldridge was all sympathy, but
managed to impart some lightness into an affair that Lady Crowborough
had never thought to regard as anything but a gloomy tragedy. When she
took leave of her Lady Crowborough's manner was intimately affectionate.
She kissed her and called her "my dear," and said what a comfort it was
to pour out one's troubles to an old friend.

Afterwards, in conversation with her husband, she was a little doubtful
whether she had not gone rather too far. "Of course I have known her for
a good many years," she said. "And I've always liked her too. But the
fact is, I like her better when I'm with her than when I'm away from
her; I don't know why. She's got a sort of way with her."

"She's a very charming woman," said Lord Crowborough. "I've nothing
against her at all. I don't know why you shouldn't like her when you're
away from her. Anyhow, I'm glad you made a bit of a fuss with her. And
evidently she responded, from what you say. No doubt she wants this
trouble ended. So do we. Poor old Edmund! I've forgiven him for what he
said, though 'pon my word it was outrageous."

"Well, I said I never would forget it," said Lady Crowborough. "And
really, John, when I come to think of it, I'm not at all sure you're
right in making it so plain that we are anxious to see Colonel Eldridge
back on the old terms with us. Perhaps he'll even refuse my invitation,
and we shall have given him a handle. If he does come, of course I shall
be polite to him, but I've no intention of treating him in the same way
as I have Cynthia."

"Well, I don't suppose you'll kiss him; but I'm quite sure you won't
treat him stiffly, my dear. You may begin like that, but you're
incapable of keeping it up."

Lady Crowborough sighed. "I _am_ like that," she admitted. "I get
carried away."

When the party from Pershore Castle had driven off, Lady Eldridge took
her sister-in-law into the house, leaving the young people still at
their games, and Sir William, who had changed into gleaming white,
playing with them. Lady Eldridge was a handsome dark-eyed, dark-haired
woman, very well preserved for her years, which were about the same as
those of Mrs. Eldridge, but without the look of fragile youth that was
the note of that lady's appearance in her most favourable moments. She
had an agreeable, decisive manner of speech, and a straightforward,
honest look. The two of them had been friends at school, and it was at
Hayslope Hall that Lady Eldridge had first met her husband, at that time
a young barrister, not entirely briefless, or he would not have been in
a position to marry, but with nothing in his prospects to indicate the
opulence that he now so much enjoyed.

Lady Eldridge's special room was the most recent addition to the house,
pleasing in its proportions and decoration, and beautifully but quietly
furnished. Mrs. Eldridge sank into a deep cushioned chair, and said with
a plaintive sigh: "I wish I could afford a room like this. You've made
such a perfect success of it, Eleanor. I don't think it could possibly
be nicer."

"It's very sweet of you to say so, my dear. But I don't think you have
any cause to grumble, with all the beautiful old things you have in your
room. Of course these are mostly old, too, but then they have all been
bought. I might easily have gone wrong, you know. You don't think it
looks like just money, do you?"

"Oh, no! Oh, no!" Mrs. Eldridge held up hands of expostulation. Then she
dropped the subject. "The Crowboroughs want to bury the hatchet," she
said. "I'm glad enough, I do hate rows, especially between old friends.
But my poor old Edmund had a lot to put up with. I suppose Lord
Crowborough means well. It's what everybody says of him. It's what they
generally do say of thoroughly tiresome people, isn't it?--especially if
they've got titles. Of course he is tiresome, and so is she, but both of
them have their uses, so one puts up with it."

Lady Eldridge laughed. Her laugh was agreeable to listen to, and always
meant that she was amused. "What uses?" she asked.

"Well, there's the Castle to go to, for one thing."

"You used to bewail your lot in being expected to go so much to the
Castle."

"My dear, I've grown wiser, as well as a good deal poorer. Nobody can
deny that the Castle is desperately dull, entirely owing to the people
who inhabit it; for it's a fine enough house. But they do occasionally
have people to stay, though I don't know whether you've noticed that the
same people seldom come twice. It's a house to go to. To that I've
come--that I'm thankful for an invitation to dine at Pershore Castle.
I'm not sure that I didn't even angle for it. I certainly intimated that
if Edmund didn't think it good enough, the invitation was on no account
to be withdrawn from Pam and me. I made eyes at her, and she gave in at
once. She thinks I'm a very sweet woman, until she goes away from me,
and then she's not so sure about it. Am I a sweet woman, Eleanor, or a
bit of a cat? I'm never quite certain."

"You were a very sweet child," said Lady Eldridge, whose face had become
rather serious during this speech. "I always loved you and always shall.
And as long as you say everything you think to me...."

"Oh, my dear, I shall always do that. You're one of the few comforts
left to me in life. I can't grumble to Edmund, or the children. Besides,
you're so generous. I should never have had my little bit of London this
year but for you. How I should have missed it! And how I enjoyed it!
There is no doubt that one does enjoy pleasures that come to one
unexpectedly more than those that one takes as a matter of course."

"Well, Cynthia, you know that until you have a house of your own again
in London, ours is there for you to come to whenever you like. And for
the girls too. It doesn't want saying, does it, dear? We've always been
very close together. There was a time when I owed almost all my
pleasures in life to you, and I don't forget how generous _you_ were.
We've been fortunate, Bill and I, and at a time when so many people have
had to alter their way of living. It's nice to think that our good
fortune is of use not only to ourselves; that those we love can share it
with us. I suppose there aren't many people who are so close together
as you and Edmund and Bill and I. And our children too. I can't imagine
anything that would come between us."

"No," said Mrs. Eldridge. "I can't either. It's a great comfort to have
you here. I don't know what we should do without you."




CHAPTER III

NORMAN


Norman Eldridge and his cousin Pamela detached themselves from the
tennis players and strolled off through the bare blaze of the upper
garden with its elaborate architecture of walls and steps and pavings
and pergolas, and its bright, restless plantings, into the shade of the
woods.

They were close friends, these two, and had been so ever since Norman as
a boy of eight had fallen in love with Pamela as a baby of two. It's a
nice sort of boy who loves children, and Norman had been a very
attractive small boy, high-spirited, energetic and mischievous, but
never a source of anxiety with his mischievousness, as his cousin Hugo
had been. Hugo was a year older than Norman, and always eager to make
his seniority felt. In those early days Norman had paid visits from the
little house in Hampstead where his parents then lived, to Hayslope
Hall, and greatly enjoyed the ample life of the country house, with
ponies to ride, the river to fish, later on rabbits and birds to shoot,
and all the blissful freedom of the woods and fields. But Hugo, his
constant companion in holiday activities, had spoilt a good deal of the
pleasure of them. At first Norman had given way and been bullied. It
seemed as if Hugo were unable to enjoy himself without being unpleasant.
He was bigger and stronger than Norman, and had all the advantage of
being on his own ground. In earlier visits, when both children had been
under the eye of nurses and governess, there had been frequent quarrels,
but Hugo had been forced more or less to behave himself. But during that
month of Christmas holidays, when Hugo had come home from his first term
at school, he had turned Norman's excitement and pleasure into a
dragging unhappiness, which increased so much that he came to count the
days before the end of his visit as eagerly as he had counted those
which had brought him to it.

Hugo, as a schoolboy, tyrannized over him, and yet he wanted him for his
games, and hardly ever left him in peace. There was another boy, a year
older than Hugo--Fred Comfrey, son of the Rector of Hayslope--who was
constantly with them. He took his line from Hugo, and helped in the
bullying. Poor little Norman used to cry himself to sleep every night,
but it was his pride never to let his tormentors see how much they hurt
him. His uncle and aunt were kind to him. It would sometimes come over
him with a sense of bewilderment how little they knew of his real
feelings; for everything seemed to be right when the boys were with
them. No doubt they thought he was enjoying himself to the full, having
everything that a boy could want to make him happy.

It was at this time that he came to adore little Pamela, whose bright
prattle and pretty, loving ways with him soothed his sore heart. But it
was only now and then that he could forget himself, playing with her.
The other boys were brutally scornful of his taste for the companionship
of a baby.

He did not go to Hayslope again until a year later. By that time he was
a schoolboy himself. He had thought a good deal about his cousin Hugo,
and about Fred Comfrey, in the interval, and come to the conclusion,
assisted by an intimate friend of his own age to whom he had disclosed
the matter, that he had been a bally ass to be put down by them.

He had entered the republic of his school with unhappy anticipations of
the life he would lead there, with forty tyrants to domineer over him
instead of two. If it had not been for his experience with Hugo and
Fred, he would have escaped months of anticipatory dread. But his fears
proved groundless. This was a very good school for small boys, with a
headmaster whose outstanding aim was to make friends of them all and to
keep them happy. He was helped by his wife, who loved children and had
none of her own. The forty boys were her family, and outside school
hours they used the whole house as if it were their home. Under this
happy rule there were no awkward fences for a little boy new to school
life to surmount. He was welcomed as a member of the family, and one who
was expected to do it credit. Everything was done to bring out whatever
originality of character he had in him. The elder boys, taking their
tone from the headmaster, his wife and assistants, were kind and
protective. The only objection to the system was that a new boy of
self-assertive habits occasionally made himself something of a nuisance.
But the standards and ideals of school life soon told on all but the
incorrigibles; the headmaster knew when and how to exercise severity on
the rare occasions on which it was required; and if a boy had not
submitted himself to the tone of the school by the end of his first year
his parents were asked to remove him. That sometimes made trouble for
the headmaster, but he was content to put up with that now and then for
the sake of his beloved school.

Norman, after a pause of bewilderment, expanded under this treatment. He
was gay and bright and bubbling over with life; he was quick with his
work and had an aptitude for the pursuits that are valued among boys. He
was made much of from the first, but his native modesty prevented his
being spoilt.

It was this agreeable modesty of his that had led him to knuckle under
to Hugo and Fred the year before, and they had taken advantage of it. He
went down to Hayslope with his father and mother for Christmas with the
determination to knuckle under in nothing, and rather enjoyed, though
with some tremors, the prospect of making it quite plain where he stood,
and where he intended to stand for the future. He had learnt to box a
little at school, and thought it might come in useful. He didn't suppose
that he was capable of taking on Hugo and Fred together, but if it
should be necessary he was not averse from trying.

To his immense surprise, however, Hugo greeted him affably, and seemed
to have forgotten the disagreeables of the previous visit. They played
together with no more than the normal amount of friction between small
boys, and settled their differences as they arose without coming
anywhere near to blows.

Then Fred Comfrey, who had spent Christmas away from home, came on the
scene. Now was the time for the three of them to take stock of one
another. So far, Norman had been content to make friends with an
apparently much improved Hugo, without bothering himself about whether
he would have liked him if he had seen him in contact with other boys.
In the give and take of school life a boy finds his level very quickly.
He is known through and through, and sized up with an accuracy seldom at
fault, though the rule by which he is measured is more rigid than any
that is applied in after life. Outside, the rule is somewhat relaxed.
Boys not acceptable to their fellows may find themselves liked by older
people, and show themselves in an altogether different light. The
ordinary courtesies of life, disregarded at school, have some sway.
There is the softening influence of feminine and family society. A truce
is called, and allowances unconsciously made. So it was with Hugo and
Norman, who were not made to run together, but managed to find some
community of interest in the pursuits of holiday time.

But with the advent of the third party new adjustments had to be made.
There was a pause of observation, and then the struggle began.

The Rector's son was a stocky, dark-haired boy of considerable strength
for his age. He was already at one of the minor public schools, where
they took boys from the age of eleven. His manners were rough, as his
school was, and his ideals did not include that of any sort of
courtesy, though he was retiring enough in the company of his elders.

Hugo was as tall as Fred, but not nearly so broad or strong. He was
dark, too, and good-looking in boy fashion, though not remarkably so.
His manners were agreeable in grown-up society, and Norman had lately
found them inoffensive when not affected by outside influences. In a
very short time it was to be proved whether he would keep up his
new-found amity with his cousin or put himself on Fred's side against
him. His character was weak, and a year before Fred had played upon it,
ostensibly following his lead, because with unpleasant precocity he
recognized his superiority of place, but actually pushing him into the
attitude that suited his inclinations.

Now came Norman's second surprise. During the pause of observation which
came before the three of them settled down to the respective places
which their characters and experience had earned for them, Fred seemed
to realize that Norman partook in some measure of Hugo's superiority. It
would have been marked enough to anybody who had seen the three of them
together. The frankness of demeanour which had been encouraged by
Norman's short experience of admirably conducted school life formed a
significant contrast with Fred's clumsy diffidence in presence of his
elders and his sniggering audacities when released from restraint. He
was an unpleasant boy even at that early age, and Norman instinctively
disliked him from the first moment of the second period of intimacy, and
was inclined to hug his dislike.

It was he who made the breach that presently came. Otherwise, Fred would
have kept the peace, and they would have got on as long as they were
together without an open quarrel.

Three-year-old Pamela was the cause of it. Norman had found her more
entrancing than ever, and had made no attempt to hide his love for her
during the week before Fred had come on the scene. Hugo had grumbled
sometimes when Norman had wanted to play with her, and he had wanted him
to do something else, but there had been no repetition of the contempt
that this unmanly preference for the society of a baby had previously
called forth. Hugo was rather fond of his little sister, though he never
put himself out to amuse her.

On the third day after Fred's arrival he came up to the hall immediately
after breakfast, all agog for the game devised the evening before.

It had been snowing hard, then and through the night, and now it was a
glorious, sparkling morning, with the garden and the park and the woods
all muffled in white, under a frost which bound the whole landscape into
gleaming, motionless beauty. The boys had found a pair of Canadian
snowshoes in a lumber-room. They were to use them for a game of Indian
trackers in the woods, and had agreed upon their several parts, not
without some dispute, but on the whole amicably. Hugo and Fred were
eager to be off at once. So was Norman, but he was rolling on the floor
of the hall when Fred arrived, Pamela pursuing him with shrieks of
laughter, and did not at once respond to Fred's urgings. When they were
repeated with impatience he responded still less. He wasn't going to be
ordered about by Fred, and his latent hostility impelled him to make it
plain to him that the more insistent the summons the less quickly would
it be obeyed. When Hugo added his impatient word, he said: "All right,
you go out and begin, if you're in such a hurry. I'll come when I'm
ready."

The two boys flung off grumbling, and Norman played with Pamela until a
nurse came to fetch her. Then he set out to join them, not without some
tremors over the reception he would meet with. But there was something
not altogether disagreeable about these tremors, and he grinned widely,
though he was not in the least amused, as he turned the corner of the
house and saw Hugo and Fred sitting on a snow-covered log at the edge of
the wood some distance off. Curiously enough, this scene came back to
him vividly ten years later as he was crouching under the lee of a
trench in Flanders, waiting for the signal to attack a more formidable
foe. And, though he didn't know it, there was actually the same grin on
his face when the signal came.

He walked slowly across the park towards them, stepping rather carefully
in the footmarks that one of them had made in the snow. When he got
within hailing distance of them he called out: "Haven't you tried the
snowshoes yet?"

There was no reply. They had their heads together and Fred was eyeing
him balefully.

When he got near them Fred rose from his seat, and said: "Look here,
we're not going to stand this any longer."

"Well, then sit it," replied Norman, rather pleased with the readiness
of the repartee.

Fred looked uglier than usual, but his next speech was more in the tone
of reason than Norman had expected. "You're the youngest of the three of
us," he said. "You're not going to keep us hanging about waiting for you
when we've all settled on something to do. The cheek of it!"

Norman glanced at Hugo, who still sat on the log. There was nothing in
his face yet to show whether he was hostile or not. He looked more
interested than anything, and it came home to Norman that if he got the
better of Fred, Hugo need no longer be feared as an adversary.

"Well, I'm sorry I kept you waiting," said Norman. "But I'm here now, so
let's begin."

Fred was still inclined for argument. "I'm the oldest," he said, "but
we're both here to play with Hugo, I suppose. As you're staying with
him, naturally he doesn't like to make too much fuss over your cheek.
But--"

"He didn't mind making a fuss last year," interrupted Norman, "and you
sucked up to him and helped him. I was a bally ass to stand it then, and
I'm not going to stand it now."

Fred made a threatening gesture. "Sucking up!" he repeated. "You'd
better be careful what you say."

Hugo still held aloof, hunched up on the log, with his hands in his
pockets. Somehow Norman felt it necessary to bring him in. "He does suck
up to you," he said. "_I'm_ not going to, you know."

Hugo stirred uneasily, and said: "It's quite true what he says. It's
cheek keeping us waiting like this for a quarter of an hour."

"To play with a baby," added Fred with scorn. It was the charge, so
frequently brought, which had hurt him the year before. But it hurt him
no longer. "I like playing with little Pam," he said. "So does Hugo
sometimes, when you're not here. You'd like it too, if you weren't such
a dirty scug."

This was the turning-point. Fred made another gesture of attack, but did
not follow it up. If he had done so the battle would have been short and
sharp, and whoever had won--it must have been he--bad blood would have
been let off and the three boys would have settled down together.
Instead, he turned to Hugo. "Really, that's a bit too much!" he said
angrily. "Shall I teach him his lesson?"

Hugo rose. "Oh, let's chuck it," he said. "What's the good of scrapping
when there's a game to play?"

They played their game, which none of them enjoyed. The contest had
seemed to be quite indecisive, but Norman had won it hands down. It was
Hugo, the weakest character of the three, who was the decisive factor.
Fred deferred to him, and lost ground by doing so. Norman made no effort
to gain ascendancy over him, being content with equal terms, but his
ascendancy none the less became marked. Because he disliked Fred,
finding something in him antagonistic to all the clean ideals in which
he had been reared, Hugo came rather to dislike him too. Fred met this
attitude with deprecation, which made matters worse. He began to be
cold-shouldered, and towards the end of the holidays his society was as
much as possible dispensed with.

The next time that Norman came to Hayslope, in the summer, Fred had made
his ground good again, having become necessary to Hugo in the meantime.
There was no quarrel this time, but Norman never liked Fred, and their
intimacy was only on the surface. He didn't like Hugo much either, or
wouldn't have liked him if he had known him at school among a lot of
other boys. But there was some sense of relationship and he was part of
Hayslope Hall and all its keen delights.

As the years of boyhood went by, the cousins remained friends in some
sort. But Norman's lead became more pronounced. Hugo went to Harrow,
which was his father's school. William Eldridge by this time had left
the Bar to engage in commerce, and was already beginning to make money.
Norman was sent to Eton. When he had been there a year his foot was on
the ladder. He was one of those boys to whom success in school life
comes naturally, while Hugo was a potential rotter, destined to remain
in the ruck, unless he should emerge from it for some discreditable
reason.

When Norman was fifteen and Fred nearly eighteen, the antagonism between
them at last found its vent. Fred had grown into a lout of a boy, whose
only saving grace was athleticism. He was already in his school eleven
and fifteen, and Norman, though coming on well, was as yet far below
those altitudes. Fred, uplifted by his successes, was not so careful now
to conciliate him. He encouraged the worst side of Hugo, and had
established an influence over him while Norman had been off the field.
This always happened, but now Hugo did not gradually come over to
Norman, as he had done before. His adolescence had brought him to Fred's
unsavoury views of life and conduct. Fred was his chosen companion at
Hayslope, in a way that Norman would never be.

Norman, an attractive, light-hearted boy, in the early years of his
school life, was not without experience of evil, to which he had shut
his eyes as much as possible. The talk of the two older boys offended
and troubled him, but he did not at first combat it. He was parted from
them by more than years. Hitherto they had all been boys together; now
the other two were essentially men, of the baser sort, and he remained a
boy, with a boy's clean distaste for what was as yet none of his
business. He fell silent when they pursued their promptings, and
presently began to withdraw himself from them.

Pamela had reached the age of nine. She was an engaging little
sylph-like creature, with laughing, mischievous ways, and a bright
intelligence beyond her years. She was quite fit to be a companion to
Norman, and he took pleasure in her society. Judith was only a year
younger, and companionable, too, in a more serious way. Alice and
Isabelle were five and four. All of them loved Norman, who played
childish games with them, and was entirely happy in doing so. But this
brought on him some return of the treatment by which he had been made so
unhappy during his first intercourse with Hugo and Fred together. It did
not make him unhappy now, but contemptuous of them. Still, there was the
fact that Norman's childhood still hung about him, while they had got
rid of theirs; and no boy of fifteen likes having his youth emphasized,
especially by those, rather older, with whom he desires to be on equal
terms. Fred and Hugo held this advantage over him, which delayed the
outbreak for some time.

It came suddenly when it did come, and its beginnings were almost a
repetition of the quarrel of years before. Norman was wanted to do
something with the other two, and was not to be found. They came upon
him by chance, with Pamela, in a retired part of the garden. They were
sitting on a bench deep in conversation, for they found plenty to talk
about that interested them, and Pamela was often very serious in these
confabulations, when she laid aside the quick activities of her nature
and was content to sit quietly and talk to a friend.

The discovery was made an occasion of whooping triumph by Fred and Hugo,
as if they had surprised some secret. Pamela flamed out against them for
disturbing her and Norman, and told them to go away and leave them
alone. Their interference stung Norman to a cold fury that was quite a
new experience to him, and beyond what was natural to his years. He
stood up with a white face and confronted Fred, whose eyes flickered for
a moment before him. "I'll just go and get my cap," he said, "and then
I'll come with you. Wait for me down by the wood."

So he got Pamela away. She expostulated indignantly as they crossed the
lawn together. "I hate Fred Comfrey," she said. "Why do you want to go
with him instead of staying with me?"

"Oh, we'd already arranged something. I'd forgotten," he said shortly.
"I can't always be with you."

It was beyond him altogether to affect indifference before her, and this
unusual brusqueness served its turn. "You're ashamed of them finding you
talking to a girl," she said hotly. "You're like that horrid Fred. Very
well, then, you needn't pretend to be friends with me any more. Go with
him."

"Oh, don't be silly," he said, and left her.

He went through the garden and across the park to where they were
waiting for him. As he went he gave reign to his anger. Little Pamela!
That coarse brute to jeer at their being together! And Hugo had stood
by, grinning, if not even adding jeers of his own. His fist clenched as
he walked up to them. "You're a foul swine," he said, stopping short
within a yard of Fred, and added more, in language that seemed to come
readily to his lips, though as a rule he avoided the grosser forms of
schoolboy abuse.

Fred was taken aback for the moment by the violence of the attack, and
Norman turned to Hugo. "You're a swine, too," he said. "Fancy letting
this filthy cad treat your own sister like that!"

Fred began to say something; Norman did not wait to hear what. Fred's
speech goaded him to action, and he dashed his fist in the other's face.
Then they were at it. Fred's anger was loosed, too, and for a few
moments it was a desperate scrimmage, with no science shown on either
side. Norman, battered by the attack, was the first to gird himself to
some self-possession, and by fighting warily delayed the end for a
little. But he had no chance whatever against the much stronger and
bigger boy, and was soon on the grass with the fight knocked out of him.

He was struggling up to continue it, but Hugo intervened. "This is rot,"
he said, more decisive than his wont. "Fred was only chaffing. He meant
nothing by it."

Norman was gasping and sobbing, the blood dripping from his nose. "He's
a swine," he cried, "a filthy swine."

Fred stood over him, breathing hard. Norman had marked him, but not
enough to keep his blood hot. Already he was feeling some compunction at
having let himself go to the full against a boy of Norman's size. "It
was just chaff," he repeated; "nothing to get shirty about."

Norman struggled to his knees and unsteadily to his feet, and with his
handkerchief to his face went off into the wood away from them.

Fred and Hugo looked at one another. "Better go after him," Hugo said.
"There'll be a row if--"

"No good my going," said Fred sulkily. Dread of what should happen began
to take hold of him. "You'd better go. He won't want to sneak."

Hugo caught Norman up. He was standing against a tree, sobbing. "You put
up a jolly good fight against him," Hugo said awkwardly. "Better shake
hands, now it's all over."

"I shan't," cried Norman passionately. "He's a foul swine."

"Well, you keep on saying that, but I think you're making too much of
it. He didn't mean anything beastly about Pam. Naturally, I shouldn't
stand that."

"Yes, you would," said Norman, facing him. "You'd stand anything from
that beast. You're just like you used to be with him. I'll tell you
this--I stood it then, but I'm not going to stand it now. I won't have
anything more to do with him, and when you have him here I won't have
anything to do with you. You can go and be swines together. I'll play
with the children instead. You can say what you like about it. I don't
care what you say about it."

He was still somewhat incoherent, but Hugo understood him. "I dare say
it was rotten to chaff you about that," he said. "Anyhow, I apologize
for it, and I'm sure Fred will. Now you've had a scrap, you ought not to
keep it up against him."

Norman turned away. "I'm going down to the river to wash my face," he
said. "I don't want _you_."

"Aren't you going to make it up with Fred?"

"No, I'm not. I hate the beast, and I've had enough of him."

"Well, you won't say anything--"

Norman cut him short. "I'm not a cad," he said.

Hugo went back to Fred. The result of their confabulation was that Fred
kept away from the hall until Norman's visit was over. Norman did not
see him again until years afterwards.




CHAPTER IV

PAMELA


"Pam, I've got something to tell you."

Norman had waited until they were away from the glare of the garden, and
the green gloom of the summer woods was all about them, cool and secret
and inviting to confidences.

He had not changed much since those days of boyhood, though he was now
nearly twenty-five, and the last years of the war had caught him, and
taught him some things that he wanted to forget, as well as much that
had strengthened the fibre of which he was made. There was a boyish
atmosphere about him still. He was tall and slim, and his fair hair,
which he tried to keep plastered to his head, was always breaking away
from the bounds of its cosmetics and dropping a skein over his forehead.
Nothing he had undergone had affected that bright light-hearted charm of
his boyhood. He seemed to be rejoicing in his youth and his strength,
and in all the world about him, which, in spite of the shadows that
still hung over it, he at least found as good as the young men of a
generation earlier had found their more untroubled world.

Pamela was very young still, and very pretty. Her hair and her colouring
were as fair as Norman's, whom she resembled in a cousinly way. Indeed
the resemblances between them were more than superficial. They had the
same eager pleasure in whatever life they found about them. They thought
alike in most things to which they put their adventurous minds, and to
neither of them did it seem odd that Pamela, who had not long since left
the schoolroom, and had grown up under the shadow that had dulled and
limited the life of her kind, should claim an equality of opinion with
Norman, who was six years older, and knew so much more than the
generality of young men had ever known before.

One may pause for a moment to note this unexpected attribute of those
whose early years of manhood, instead of being passed in the pursuits
and interests, educative or otherwise, adapted to their youth, had been
given to the war, of which they had borne the ultimate brunt. The years
which divide us from it are passing away. The social phenomena of each
successive stage of the long struggle, and those that have succeeded it,
too familiar to call for much notice at the time, will become blurred,
and half forgotten even by those who were part of them; and in after
years they will be difficult to gauge. This, among them, is not likely
to be seen as it was, when the years have increased, and later
generations try to recapture the spirit of the great war: that the young
men, and the older men too, who lived through it, and came out of it
whole, or not too broken to make what they would of their lives, put it
to all effective purposes out of their minds. While it was going on they
did the work appointed to them as if it were no more than any other work
proper to their years, and pursued their recreations with an added zest.
And when at last they were released, they crowded back into the various
ways of life open to them, and put it all behind them as just an
experience like any other which might have come to them. It could never
be forgotten, but it was not to come between them and the life to which
they had returned; and the interests of that life were exactly what they
would have been if it had never happened.

So Norman Eldridge, who would have gone to a university in the ordinary
way, but for the war, was at Cambridge now, three years later than his
time, and with his three years of service behind him. His enjoyment of
undergraduate life was even greater than it would have been in normal
times, for it was a more conscious enjoyment, and he could gauge his
opportunities better. Games, in which he excelled, though he had not
quite succeeded in gaining his hoped-for Blue for cricket, did not take
up even the greater part of his attention. He was a lover of the arts,
and found Cambridge a delectable place in which to pursue them. He had
plenty of money at his disposal, and social life was open to him at its
widest. When term-time was over he could go where he liked, and enjoy
himself as he pleased. And at this time he was enjoying himself to the
full.

"Pam, I've got something to tell you," he said as they went down into
the wood together.

"Is it the real thing this time?" she asked, with a quick smiling glance
at his face.

"Oh, none of the others have been anything--just fancies--boyish
fancies, you know."

He laughed gaily. He was very good to look at, with his close-cropped
shapely head thrown back on the firm column of his neck. Pam smiled up
at him again, with a sort of proprietary fondness. She admired him, as
she had always admired him ever since she could remember, and had never
met a young man whom she thought his equal. And it was a source of pride
to her that he was one of her own family--to all intents and purposes a
brother. Poor Hugo, over whose death she had cried, as something strange
and unexpected and infinitely pathetic, had been a kind brother to
her--she liked to remember that the last time she had said good-bye to
him, never to see him again, he had given her ten pounds to spend as she
liked--but he had never made a confidante of her, as Norman had always
done. She had known very little of Hugo's life as it was spent away from
Hayslope, but she thought she knew all about Norman's life. He had
fallen in love once or twice, and had always told her everything about
it. Hugo seemed to have gone through life without falling in love. Poor
Hugo! She could not but believe, from her intimate talks with Norman,
that he had died without acquiring the crown of his manhood. Norman was
attractive under the influence of his love affairs, and she was not
surprised that he had them continually, though she saw quite plainly
that without some such guidance as she was fortunately able to give him
he might have got into trouble with them. Men were so foolish where
girls were concerned. Even the best of them, who had a lot to give--like
Norman--fell in love with girls who were in no way their equals. But it
never did to tell them so. Give them all sympathy and affection, and
the affair died away of itself. So it had been three times with Norman
already, and Pamela, who had been a little alarmed over the first
affair, was confirmed in the belief that she had dealt most wisely with
each situation as it had arisen. Still, the genuine lasting emotion must
come into play sooner or later. There must be, somewhere, a girl who was
worthy of such a rare prize as Norman's love, and Pamela had always told
herself that when that girl was found she would welcome her
whole-heartedly.

"Yes, you've been in love with love," she said impressively; and they
both laughed, for this was a quotation.

"Trying my wings," said Norman. "They were all dears, but there wasn't
enough _to_ them when it came down to the things one is interested in."

"Well, now I'm free to speak," said Pamela, "I'll confess that they
seemed to me a set of brainless idiots. I hope the new one has got
_some_ intelligence. It would be such an advantage if you had to spend
your life with her. She's pretty, of course. Have you got a photograph
of her?"

"Not a proper one. I'm not up to that point yet."

"Worshipping at a distance?"

"No, not exactly. We've danced together a lot in London, and been the
greatest pals. Really, I've been rather clever about it. She's very
young--only in her first season. She's out to have a jolly good time,
but her life isn't only amusement. She's slogging hard at the piano.
She'd like to be a pro, but of course her people won't let her."

"Why not?"

"Oh, well, her father's a Duke. She's Lady Margaret Joliffe. I dare say
you've seen pictures of her in the papers. But they don't do her
justice. She's perfectly lovely. Oh, I've got it terrible bad this time,
Pam."

"Yes, I've seen her pictures. She's very pretty indeed," said Pam. "And
Jim knows her. He says she's very clever."

The time seemed to have come at last, then. If Norman succeeded in
winning a girl like this, nobody could say he was not getting as good as
he gave, not even Pam, who thought that hardly anybody would be good
enough for him. Yet she did not experience the quick sense of pleasure
which she had persuaded herself would be her response whenever Norman
did come to announce the real thing.

"Oh, clever!" repeated Norman. "That's not the word for her. She
_knows_. She's got extraordinary perceptions for a girl of her age. It
isn't only music. It's books, and art--everything that's jolly and
interesting. And she's such fun with it all. No more of a highbrow than
you are. In fact, she's the only girl I've ever met who sees things in
the way that you do."

Pamela did feel some pleasure at this. "That's topping," she said. "Of
course prettiness isn't everything. I suppose the others were pretty,
except the girl with a squint; but they--"

"Oh, come now, Pam, she hadn't got a squint. She--"

"Well, a slight cast in the eye, then; and some people think it an
added beauty. But they all seemed to have the brains of rabbits. I was
beginning to think that you never _would_ fall in love with anybody that
had got beyond Short Division. Of course I'm glad you've found somebody
intelligent at last. But do you mean to say that you never got beyond
talking about Hanbert and Ravel and Augustus John with her?"

Norman looked at her with a slightly pained expression. "Pam dear!" he
expostulated. "Why this acidulation?"

Pamela laughed, and they began again. "Well, it's really rather
exciting," she said. "Do tell me about it, Norman. You haven't told me
anything yet. When did you catch fire?"

His face took on a beatific expression. "Well, I'd held off just a
trifle," he said. "We'd had a topping time together here and there. She
always seemed to be pleased to see me, but--well, there was generally
the old Duchess somewhere in the background; she's not really old, of
course, but-- You see, it seemed to be flying a bit high for me. I was
at school with Cardiff--her brother--and he was in the Regiment too for
a bit."

"Whose brother? The Duchess's?"

"No. Margaret's."

"Do you call her Margaret?"

"Well, I was going to tell you. I lunched with them at the Harrow match.
Duchess rather cordial. Duke ditto. He used to be a bit of a cricketer,
and he knew I'd got my Eleven at Eton. I was feeling a bit bucked with
myself--seemed to be getting a sort of domestic hold, you know. So I
plumped myself down beside her, without being invited to do so, and she
didn't turn me away. I made her laugh. I believe I made them all laugh
at our end of the table. I was feeling good and happy, you know, and
rather let myself go. So after lunch I asked her to perambulate with me;
and we perambulated. I don't think it was quite in the bargain. I could
amuse them as a bright young lad, while they were stuffing, but I
mustn't take liberties. She gave a sort of quick look at the old Dutch,
and said: 'Yes, come along; we'll run away.' The old Dutch caught us
with her eye as we were twinkling off, and called out, 'Margaret!' But
Margaret wasn't taking any, so we had a very pleasant half-hour
together, and she gave me most of her dates."

"Most of her dates!"

"Oh, we weren't eating 'em out of a paper bag. I found out most of the
places she was going to when they left London. I don't anticipate an
invitation to Balmoral, or anything of that sort; but Goodwood's open to
everybody, and there are one or two houses in Scotland I think I can
wangle myself into later on, and there's a chance of her going to the
Canterbury cricket week. If she does, Norman Eldridge will also take
part in that festival. Oh, it's not over yet, by any means. By the time
I have to resume my studies at Cambridge University, I hope--"

"Yes, but what about--?"

"Wait a minute. You're in such a hurry. I took her back to the Dukeries.
They were in a box, and fortunately Cardiff was there. He'd been off on
a little line of his own at lunch, and I hadn't seen him for some time.
His welcome was obstreperous. He was feeling good and happy himself,
owing to his own particular fairy smiling on him, I suppose. He'd
brought her with him. She was some peach."

"Oh, never mind about her. Stick to the point."

"I did. I took advantage of the genial atmosphere, and brought the old
Dutch into it. She didn't want to laugh at first, but I made her. I
wanted to remove the impression that I was a sort of snatch-lady pirate,
but only wanted to play with them all together. I could tell the point
where I succeeded. Soon kind of unhitched herself generally, and--"

"Oh, do come to the point, Norman. You're getting as long-winded as one
of the old almshouse women. When did you call Margaret Margaret? That's
the important thing."

"Yes, I know it is. It was a thrill, Pam. I didn't do it as if I'd done
it by accident. I did it loud and bold--at least, not loud; I thought it
would try the old Dutch too much. But it was all quite simple. When we
said good-bye, I looked at her straight, and said: 'Good-bye,
Margaret.'"

"I think it _was_ rather bold--if not crude."

"No, dear; not crude. Not crude at all. I put a world of meaning into
it--the auld hackneyed phrase, which may mean so little and may mean so
much."

Pamela laughed. "I don't believe you're in love with her at all, if you
can make fun of it," she said.

"How little you know, Pam! I jest to hide my emotions. I've fed on that
sweet moment ever since."

"You've told me of other moments rather like it. I suppose her eyes
dropped before yours."

"They did not. That's where she's different from all other girls--except
you."

"Thanks awfully, Norman. I'll try and keep my eyes from dropping if it
ever happens to me. But from what you've said before I thought they
ought to drop. What did she do then--or say?"

"She looked at me straight, and said: 'Good-bye, Norman,' with a little
half smile."

Pamela considered this. "That was the end, then," she said.

"Yes, but what an end, Pam! It was the beginning too. You can see what a
thrill it was, can't you?"

"Yes, I think I can," she said slowly.

"Mind you, this was the very first time. Up to then there hadn't been a
word or a sign. That's what makes it something to remember, you know.
Oh, Pam! It's a heavenly feeling being in love. And it's such a score
having somebody like you to tell it to. I don't know who I should have
told if I hadn't had you--my tailor, I dare say; I shouldn't have been
able to keep it to myself, and I owe him something which it isn't quite
convenient to pay just yet. I told her about you, you know."

"Did you?"

"Oh, yes. I always do talk about you when I get really confidential."

"What did you tell her? And what did she say?"

"She was very sweet about you, and said you were just the sort of girl
she would like to have for a friend. A lot of her friends were such
ninnies."

"I never meet that sort of girl now," said Pamela with a sigh. "If only
I hadn't had flu when Auntie Eleanor asked me to stay with you in
London, I suppose I should have met her."

"Yes, that was jolly bad luck. We should all three have had a jolly good
time together."

Pamela laughed again. "Perhaps I should have had somebody of my own,"
she said. "I'm old enough now, you know, Norman."

"Of course you are. You're just the same age as Margaret, as a matter of
fact. You'd have had 'em swarming. But there are precious few of them I
should think good enough for you. I say, old girl, what about Jim
Horsham?"

"Well, what about him?"

"I don't think _he's_ good enough, you know, though he _is_ a Viscount."

"I like Jim. I've known him all my life."

"He's a good chap, but he's a desperate dull dog. Don't go falling in
love with Jim, Pam."

"I'm not likely to fall in love with him."

"It occurred to me this afternoon that he showed some slight inclination
to fall in love with you. There was a sort of concentrated heaviness on
him whenever he was with you. I suppose he'd sparkle if he could, under
emotion, but as he can't, he's got to be duller than usual. Perhaps
there's nothing in it. But I shouldn't blame him if he did fall in love
with you. In fact, I should think it rather cheek, in a way, if he
didn't. He's not likely to meet anybody more worth falling in love
with. But it isn't good enough, Pam."

"Well, I shouldn't worry about it, if I were you. Jim isn't my ideal,
though he's a nice old thing, and I think you're too superior about him
altogether. Did you know Fred Comfrey had come home?"

"Fred Comfrey!" Norman frowned. "I shouldn't think you're likely to fall
in love with _him_," he said.

"Oh, bother falling in love! I'm leaving that to you at present. But
there aren't many people to play with about here just now. He makes
another one. He's much improved."

"Oh, Pam, he's an awful creature. Surely, you're not going to have
anything to do with him!"

"I used to hate him; but he's quite different now. I should never have
known him. You know he went out to China, before you came to live here,
and he never came home until he joined up for the war. He did very well
in the war--got his Commission quite soon, and the Military Cross. He
was badly wounded too, and isn't fit yet. I'm sorry for him; and really,
Norman, he's quite nice. Anyhow, we couldn't _not_ have him to play with
us, because of Mr. and Mrs. Comfrey. I expect Auntie Eleanor will ask
him here too. He only came yesterday."

"Well, I suppose you've got to give everybody his chance. He was an
unmitigated beast as a boy, but perhaps he's improved. He couldn't very
well have got any worse. Still, it does rather stick in my gizzard that
he should be making friends with you, as I suppose he'll want to. I
should be a bit cautious if I were you, Pam. After all, one does know
something of what a man is, when one has known him as a boy. I should
say that Mr. Fred Comfrey was a nasty specimen, even if he has succeeded
in disguising it, as he used not to. How long is he staying here?"

"I think he may stay in England altogether. He has done very well in
business in China, and thinks he may be able to carry on in London."

"I wish he'd stayed in China. But how long is he staying in Hayslope?"

"For some time, I think. He had to go back to China, directly he was
demobbed, and hasn't had a holiday since the war. You ought to be nice
to him, Norman. Poor Hugo liked him. He talked to me very nicely about
Hugo this morning."

"When did you see him?"

"After church. Mother asked him to lunch, but he thought he'd better go
home."

"He wasn't at all a good friend for Hugo, you know."

"Perhaps not; but that's so long ago. Hugo improved too, afterwards."

Norman acquiesced perfunctorily. He knew that Hugo had not at all
improved, afterwards, but also that Pamela didn't. "Well, I'll try to
forget what he used to be like," he said. "But don't let's talk about
him any more. Let's talk about Margaret."




CHAPTER V

THE FAMILY


Colonel Eldridge rode into his stable-yard and delivered up his horse to
Timbs, who came hobbling out to receive it with a cheerful morning air
and a general appearance of satisfaction with himself and his
circumstances. Yet there were those who would have said that Timbs had
no particular reason to be pleased with the way things had gone for him.

He had come to Hayslope Hall as groom ten years before, and had
succeeded the old coachman four years later. He might have considered
himself lucky then, for he was only twenty-six years of age. He had half
a dozen horses in his stables and two grooms under him. There was also a
chauffeur for the big car and the little runabout. Timbs had a young
wife and a new baby, and comfortable quarters in which to keep them. In
fact there seemed nothing left for him to desire, unless it was another
baby of a sex complementary to the first one.

Then the war came. Timbs joined up among the first, and was turned into
a good soldier, always cheerful and reliable, and diligent in writing
home to the young wife who was being taken care of at Hayslope. Colonel
Eldridge, who had gone back to soldiering himself, had exercised
pressure, where it was required, as it was not in the case of Timbs,
upon the able-bodied men on his estate to join the army, but had
done his utmost to ensure their leaving their homes free of anxiety to
those dependent upon them. So Mrs. Timbs and the baby prospered, while
Timbs fought for his country; but Mrs. Timbs always wished that the war
would end and Timbs would come home again, in which she differed from
many wives in similar circumstances.

Timbs did come home at last, and she did not have to wait for him until
quite the end. His left leg was shattered, and he had been for a long
time in a hospital before she was allowed to have him. About the time
the armistice was signed he was ready for work again. But it was not in
his master's power to give him the work he had done before the war.
Hayslope Hall could no longer support a coachman, two or three grooms
and a chauffeur. Timbs took the place of all of them. One horse was kept
and both the cars, but the bigger one was seldom used because of the
price of petrol and tires. Timbs turned himself into an efficient
chauffeur, and liked the change in his duties. He had higher wages than
before, but perhaps not quite so high as he could have got elsewhere if
he hadn't preferred to stick to his old master. His quarters were the
same, his wife was as devoted to him as ever, and his baby had grown
into a pretty little girl of seven, who was the apple of his eye, and
made a pet of by the young ladies. Timbs thought himself well off, even
with his crooked leg; and perhaps he was, as things go nowadays.

Timbs knew when the Colonel was in the mood for a little chat, and when
it was wise to render quick service with a silent tongue. In the good
old days the Colonel had seldom come in from his morning ride without a
cheery word or two to this favourite servant of his. He loved his horses
and found plenty to say about them, though most of it might have been
said many times before. And he would have something to say to Timbs
about what he might have seen in the course of his inspection of farms
and fields, which he liked to undertake before breakfast in the summer.
In the autumn there were early starts for cubbing, and then of course
there was plenty to talk about on the return.

The good days did not seem to have disappeared entirely when the war was
over, though Hugo's death had made him more silent than before, and the
reduction in stables and outdoor upkeep generally had already begun. But
there was a season's hunting, and Pamela had made her first appearance
in the field. Timbs, with one groom to help him, had been kept busy
enough, but his first winter at home had seemed to him very good. This
was what the Colonel and he had always looked forward to--the time when
the young ladies would hunt regularly, one after the other. Miss Pamela
was good company for her father. He would soon pick up his spirits, and
everything would be as it had been again.

But by the next season the economies had increased. There was no more
hunting from Hayslope Hall. The Colonel kept one horse to get about on,
and there was an old pony for pottering work on the place, which the
younger children sometimes rode. That was what the war had brought to
Colonel Eldridge in return for his services, which had included a year
in the field, and after that four years of routine work in various
provincial centres of industry. As a soldier he made no complaints. At
his age he expected no reward other than the conviction of having done
his duty where he could be made most useful. As a landowner he had many
complaints to make, but kept them mostly to himself. He had passed for a
rich man before the war; now he was a poor one. But one did not flaunt
one's poverty before the world. That was why he had dropped hunting
altogether; his old Caesar would have carried him well enough for a day
or so a week, if he had cared to go on.

The morning chats with Timbs were getting rarer. There would certainly
be none this morning. After a look at his master's face Timbs led Caesar
away without a word, and the Colonel went into the house. Something
happened to put him out. Timbs's own face was overcast, and it was fully
two minutes before he began to whistle at his work.

It was a quarter past eight. Breakfast was at half-past, and as Colonel
Eldridge would ride no more that day, he went upstairs to change his
clothes. He came down as the gong sounded, and his expression had
somewhat cleared. He held strong opinions about keeping an even temper
before his family.

An English family assembled for breakfast in an old-established country
house--the nations of the earth may be invited to contemplation of it.
Here at Hayslope Hall was an example that could have been multiplied by
thousands at that hour, or at one a little later; for as a nation we are
not early risers except on compulsion.

The room was large, but not too large for an air of domesticity when
there was only the family to use it. It had three long small-paned
windows, which on this summer morning were open to the wide, yet
secluded garden. The walls were hung with pictures, some good, some
indifferent, and all so familiar that they were never looked at. Of the
portraits none were older than the middle of the eighteenth century; but
five or six generations of men and women of the same blood who have
lived in the same house, and, allowing for differences of era, in much
the same way, is already something substantial in the way of background.
The furniture was not more than about a hundred years old, of that
period of solid and dignified ugliness which was yet so much more
satisfactory than the fashions succeeding it that by contrast with them
it is now beginning to acquire merit. How it had come to replace the
eighteenth century furniture which the periwigged gentlemen and hooped
ladies on the walls had used when in the flesh was now forgotten; but it
is only of late years that old furniture has been preferred to new, and
there was nothing remarkable in this. The refurnishing of the
dining-room might very well have been set in hand again since the last
clearing out a hundred years before if it had not been thought that it
would do very well as it was, and that there were more important rooms
to spend money on, if money was to be spent in this way. As a setting
for the family that now used it the room was eloquent of an ancestry
already respectably established, and it told somehow of interests that
were not markedly concerned with the decorations and appointments of a
house. To the Eldridges, their dining-room was the place for the
enjoyment of food and the sociability that went therewith, and it
fulfilled all purposes that could be required of it. It was only in the
matter of large assemblies, of which the great expanse of dark mahogany
and the score or so of well-padded chairs seemed to make perpetual
suggestion, that any incongruity might have been felt. The time for that
was not now. But with the table lessened to the needs of family use and
the space around it thus agreeably increased, the normal occupation of
the room was sufficient for it. Here began the day with the assembling
of those who would go their ways, some together and some apart,
throughout its course, but all with a sense of the nearness of the rest;
and here they would meet twice again before the day was done, to keep
alive one of the best of the good things that English country life has
cherished and made complete--the community of the family.

Colonel Eldridge, after greeting his daughters with a mixture of
formality and affection, occupied himself with his breakfast and the
letters which lay in a little pile beside his plate. It had not been his
habit to deal thus with his correspondence in the days before the war.
He had been more ready to talk then. He would choose a few letters out
of the pile and perhaps discuss them, as Mrs. Eldridge did with hers at
the other end of the table, and leave the rest for afterwards. Now he
went through them all, business letters as well as private, and,
schooled as he was to hide his emotions, he could not always keep from
his face some expression of annoyance, or even dismay. But it was only
in his face that this showed, and his wife and daughters knew that it
was not meant to show at all. By degrees they had learnt to ignore it.
If they addressed him he would always respond, and he would have been
annoyed if they had tried to suit themselves to his moods. He liked to
hear them chattering gaily among themselves, though he was not always
ready to join in their chatter. They were, indeed, the reward that all
his anxieties and schemings brought him. It was the happiness and
freedom of their lives in the home which it behooved him to keep intact
about them that sweetened it to him. But for them there would have been
no anxiety, but only some reduction of opportunities which would still
have left the main interests of his life untouched.

Colonel Eldridge was very neat in his suit of grey tweed, well-cut,
well-brushed, but well-worn, his white stock creaseless, his figure thin
and a little stiff, but not with the stiffness of age, his gold-rimmed
glasses on the ridge of his thin, straight nose, his well-shaped nervous
hands manipulating his papers or the implements of his meal. He was as
different as possible, in outward appearance, from those ancestors of
his whose pictures hung upon the walls; but probably he was very like
them at root. Certainly there was not one who had been more attached to
the house and acres which had been theirs and were now his. He had been
a good soldier, of a limited kind, but he was above all a country
gentleman, and looked thoroughly in his place in this room, which could
only have been found, just as it was, in an English country house.

Mrs. Eldridge also looked thoroughly in place behind the old silver and
china of her equipage. She always came down to breakfast in a state of
apparent content with herself and her surroundings, cool and unruffled
both in dress and demeanour. In the time that was past there had been so
much to look forward to in the day of which this gathering was the
inauguration. Though not, presumably, attached to the life of the
country by the same ties as bound her husband, and enjoying her life
equally when the periodic moves were made to London, she would have
chosen the country rather than the town for permanent residence. The
choice had not been hers, but it had had to be made. Much had gone that
had made life agreeable to her at Hayslope, but much remained. On these
summer mornings it was not so unlike what it had always been to her.
There was the pleasant meal with her husband and her children, whom she
loved; the appointments of the table, in which she never failed to take
pleasure, though she had used them regularly for over twenty years; the
sense of being newly and becomingly dressed; the birds singing in the
garden, which was so fresh and inviting, and with the windows open so
much a part, as it were, of the room itself. Her letters never brought
her worries, as her husband's sometimes brought him--only occasionally a
mild regret for opportunities of which she could no longer take
advantage. But at this time of the day she was not much inclined to want
more than she had. Her domestic duties were immediately in front of her,
and she enjoyed them. She enjoyed them even more than before, for with
fewer servants more depended on her. Only half of her desired the
distractions due to wealth; the rest of her was pure domesticity. She
had never been happier than during the first few years of married life,
before her husband had succeeded his father as Squire of Hayslope. She
was happy now in much the same responsibilities as had then devolved
upon her, had she but known it. In these early hours of the day the
consciousness of what she had lost did not trouble her. Besides,
something might always happen in the long hours before her. She was not
so old as to have lost that sense of the unexpected.

Pamela was happy too. She might grumble sometimes--to Norman--about the
restrictions that had come to spoil the life of Hayslope Hall; but she
loved it. And all the future was before her, golden and glamorous. It
wrapped her in a sort of happy aura, which contained no definite point
of desire. Anything might happen to her, in any one of these summer
days, which began with the family meeting at breakfast. Something was
bound to happen some day, and in the meantime life was sweet, and the
shadow that had come to lie over her home hardly darkened at all the
radiance in which she walked.

Judith was as pretty as Pamela in her way, which was an entirely
different way. She was the only dark member of the family, now that
Hugo was dead. Some forgotten ancestress had bequeathed her her lustrous
hair, of which the shadows were almost visibly blue, and her large,
deep, solemn eyes, her very skin was dark, but with the bloom of youth
on it, and the healthy blood that flowed beneath its soft surface, it
was rich and delicate. At the age of eighteen she had not yet come into
the full heritage of her beauty, which did not depend so much as
Pamela's upon youth. She hardly even seemed aware of it, and clothes
were not yet a matter of much interest to her. She had alternations of
childish high spirits and brooding reflection. Out of doors she was
still something of a tomboy, in her young and restless energy; but she
would sit for hours over a book, and in those moods she was oblivious to
everybody and everything around her. She seldom talked about what she
read, and indeed her reading would have been a puzzle to anyone who had
tried to draw inferences of literary taste from it. Pamela had once
reported to Norman the books over which Judith had spent hours of a wet
day. They were Grimm's Fairy Tales, "The Wide, Wide World," and Bacon's
Essays, and she seemed to have spent about the same time over each.
Pamela held that she had no literary taste whatever; Norman was inclined
to treat her preferences as a touchstone of merit. If Judith liked
something, it was probably good. This theory was strengthened when she
said she liked a picture of Gaugin's, of which he submitted to her a
reproduction, and weakened by her absorption in Martin Tupper's
"Proverbial Philosophy," which she had found in the library and carried
up to her room with her. She was quite ready to laugh with them over her
tastes, but she would never give any explanation of them. "I like it,"
or "I don't like it," was her sole contribution to literary criticism,
and she would never be moved a hair's breadth by any consensus of
opinion. Judith went her own way in everything, but her way at present
was confined almost entirely to Hayslope, where she found everything
that she wanted. Less than Pamela did she feel the loss of what had made
the life of her home rich in interest before the war. She had grown up
from childhood under the new conditions and was happy in them.

The exceptional family beauty seemed to have stopped short at Judith.
Alice and Isabelle, who were thirteen and twelve, respectively, had
their abundant fair hair to recommend them, and their active youth, but
nothing much else as yet in the way of looks. They were agreeable
children, much alike in their eager interest in whatever went on around
them, and their unerring pursuit of pleasure. They were always "the
children" to the rest of the family, and what they thought was of small
importance, though what they did sometimes obtruded itself upon their
elders. Sitting at breakfast, one on either side of their mother, in
their neat clothes, which would not be so neat later on in the day,
their thick manes confined in heavy plaits, they seemed eminently _good_
children, showing a healthy appetite, but no greediness, in the
consumption of viands, taking a bright part in the conversation when it
touched their orbit, but not obtruding themselves in such a way as to
make their company noxious. Their presence at the breakfast table
seemed, indeed, to heighten the effect of a family at one and at peace;
for young children in a happy home have no desires outside it. Their
parents, their brothers and sisters, even the servants and dependants
who are also part of the family for the time being, are the chief
characters in their little world. Not even their parents themselves are
so bounded in their interests by the home they have made for them. And
the wonderful imagination of children makes it the chief place of
delight to them, even where its opportunities are small. Opportunities
were not small at Hayslope Hall for these two, and they were as happy as
children of their age could very well be.

If Miss Baldwin, their governess, was not completely happy--as what
woman living always in other people's houses can be?--she was as
contented as the accidents of her lot in life could make her. She was a
precise spinster of middle age, and sat very prim and mindful of her
manners between Pamela and Alice, never speaking unless when spoken to,
but then speaking with an attention to the composition of sentences and
the correct enunciation of her vowels which was a lesson to everybody
present, and intended to be so to at least two of them. Colonel Eldridge
addressed her directly, at least once in the course of every meal at
which she was present, out of politeness. Mrs. Eldridge always found it
difficult to remember that she was there, but also addressed her
occasionally; but her attention was apt to wander over the reply.

Miss Baldwin had been at Hayslope for two years, but was no nearer to
making one of the family circle than when she arrived. She was strict in
the schoolroom and a good teacher in a limited way, but without any real
interest in the subjects which she taught. Nobody would have thought,
from her appearance and manner, that she was an incurable
sentimentalist. She lived in a world of her own--a world of romance, of
which the materials were sent her once a week in official-looking long
envelopes with a typewritten address. Her time came when the children
were in bed, and the life of the house, in which she had no wish to take
part, was concentrated below. Then, in the large quiet schoolroom,
sitting by the open window in the summer, or in winter time by the fire,
she would be wafted away from the actual life about her, with all its
restrictions for one of her age and class, to live richly and freely
with the heroes and heroines of her chosen world. Baldness of narrative
troubled her not at all. In the novels by authors of repute which she
sometimes heard people discussing, there seemed no room for the play of
imagination; the novelist would have it just so and not otherwise, and
the characters to which he introduced his readers were so much like the
characters one might meet at any time in the dull and sterile flesh.
Those strong heroes of her favourite romances were as gods beside the
emasculate earth-dwellers who stood for hero even in the best of stories
bound between boards; the very virtue of their titles, if titles they
had, seemed to be denied them. Nor did the heroines please her any
better. She could never imagine herself one of them with any pleasure.
If stately, they were never stately enough; if blushing and timid, they
were merely passed by as of no account. Even Ouida, for whom she made an
exception, having read some of her novels in early life, under a strong
sense of immodesty, concerned herself with unessentials. Miss Baldwin
wanted no pages of description, however poetic. She could get that in
Wordsworth, duly annotated, so that there should be no mistake as to
locality. If it was question of a garden in which a love scene was to be
enacted, she only wanted to imagine it for herself--the most beautiful
garden that ever was, not without indications of wealth on the part of
its owners; or if a cottage garden, the mere mention of roses and
honeysuckle would suffice. It was the people who mattered and what
happened to them, and with them she smiled and wept, and felt, to the
depths of her being.

So perhaps Miss Baldwin was happy after all, if not in the circumstances
of her daily life, which she went through conscientiously and
efficiently, in that paradise the gates of which were always open to
her, where men were as gods, and women were worshipped by them, and none
of them ever behaved in the way that Miss Baldwin was always impressing
upon her pupils was the only possible way to behave.




CHAPTER VI

BARTON'S CLOSE


Such was the family party that sat round the breakfast table at Hayslope
Hall on that summer morning. Colonel Eldridge was the only member of it
upon whom a weight seemed to lie, and his disturbance of mind was
guessed at by nobody but his wife, who threw occasional exploratory and
sympathetic glances at him, but made no particular effort to lighten his
mood, unless by being more than usually responsive to the chatter of the
girls. Whatever it was that was troubling him, she would hear of it
after breakfast, when she always went to his room with him before
setting herself to the occupations that would keep them apart for the
rest of the morning.

She was a trifle apprehensive as to whether she herself might not have
given him cause for displeasure. He had refused to dine at Pershore
Castle two nights before, but she and Pamela had gone, and he had not
objected to that. What he might possibly object to, however, was the
invitation she had given to young Lord Horsham to lunch at Hayslope that
very day. She had not told him yet that she had done so, for her reason
for asking the young man had been quite clearly defined in her own mind,
and she did not want him to guess at it. Perhaps Pamela had told him
that Horsham was coming, he had guessed why, and was displeased about
it.

But no! She knew before breakfast was over that that was not the cause
of his mood.

Pamela said: "Jim is coming to lunch and I suppose he will want to play
tennis afterwards. We'd better mow the lawn, Judy, and mark out the
court again."

Colonel Eldridge frowned, and Mrs. Eldridge's spirit drooped, but rose
again when he said: "It isn't your business to mow lawns. That's one of
the things that Perkins ought to see to."

Poor dear man, he hated the idea of his daughters doing work that had
always been done as a matter of course by servants. He was sore about
all the things that they ought to have had and he could no longer give
them, even when they were things that made no difference to them
whatever.

"Oh, we like doing it, Daddy," said Pamela. "It makes us feel that we've
earned our games on it. Don't deprive us of the rewards of virtue."

He left the subject. "You'd better ask Fred Comfrey to lunch, if Horsham
is coming," he said. "You'll want a four, and I shan't be able to play
this afternoon."

So it was settled, to Mrs. Eldridge's relief. It was the first time that
Horsham had been asked to Hayslope Hall since the disturbance in which
he had been concerned, and her husband had made no comment on it. It was
not that that was troubling him.

Nevertheless, she made first mention of it when they went into his room
together. "I'm glad you don't mind Jim coming here," she said. "I
forgot to tell you that I'd asked him."

"Mind him! Oh, no, I don't mind him. It wasn't he who behaved in any way
that I could be annoyed over. And as for the Crowboroughs, I shan't keep
it up against them any longer. I couldn't bring myself to go over there
on Monday, but I'm glad you and Pamela went. We must get them over here
some time. Cynthia, I'm extremely annoyed at something I've seen this
morning."

"Yes, dear? What is it?"

She sat herself down by the window, while he stood by his writing table,
or moved between it and the fireplace, while he unburdened himself.

"William talked to me on Sunday about making an addition to his
garden--a big addition, taking in a grazing meadow of four acres;
Barton's Close, it's called--at the bottom of the wood."

"Yes, dear, I know it, and William and Eleanor told me about it. You
don't object, do you?"

"Object! It means cutting up pasture, and he has no right to do that
without my permission; no right whatever. It isn't a thing that ought to
be done in these days. Besides, his garden is out and away too big as it
is. This addition would make it double the size of our garden. It's
quite unreasonable. The house isn't his. I let it to him as a country
cottage, and never thought of it being turned into a large country house
wanting a great deal of money to keep it up. I talked to him about all
that on Sunday, and thought he understood. Certainly I didn't consent to
cutting up Barton's Close, and he must have known I didn't. But I
happened to go down there this morning, and they are already at
work--his own gardeners and half a dozen labourers besides. Really, it's
too bad. From what Coombe told me, it was all settled last week--design
and everything, and the labour arranged for. So it was a mere pretence
asking for my permission at all. I didn't give it; yet he goes straight
away and puts the work in hand."

"Did you say definitely that you wouldn't consent?" Mrs. Eldridge asked.
She was rather taken aback. She knew all about those garden plans, and
had even made suggestions of her own about them. William had mentioned
once the necessity of asking a landlord's permission to cut up pasture,
but it had been taken for granted that there would be no difficulty
about that. She was not quite sure that she had not said herself that
there would be no difficulty about that. Certainly it had never crossed
her mind that there would be.

"I objected," said her husband decisively. "Possibly I didn't say in so
many words: 'No, you can't do it.' I shouldn't say that to William. I
pointed out to him plainly why it was inadvisable, and he seemed to
understand."

"Is it very important, Edmund? There's plenty of pasture about there,
isn't there?"

"I don't know that there's more than can be made use of. But that wasn't
the chief point. It's the enlarging and enlarging at the Grange that has
become objectionable. It has gone beyond all reasonable grounds already.
All very well, as long as William is there, and treats it as a toy on
which to spend his money. But if anything happens, it will be a white
elephant--a big house with no land to it, which nobody else is likely to
want, and no longer any good as a second house on the place, which it
has always been before. _You_ and the girls couldn't live there if
anything happened to me."

"I never thought of that," she said slowly. "I don't want to think of it
either. Of course William has become very lavish; but he is so rich now
that I suppose it doesn't matter. And it _is_ different, isn't it, dear,
now that poor Hugo is dead?"

"Oh, that's what he kept driving in on me. He'll come after me here. I'm
not likely to forget it. Still, the place _is_ mine, as long as I'm
alive, and I'm not going to hand over the reins to William. He's no
_right_ to act in that way, as if I counted for nothing."

"No," she said; "it's unfortunate. What are you going to do? I suppose
you didn't tell Coombe to stop the work?"

"No; I shouldn't put an affront upon William before his servants. Seems
to me he's no objection to putting an affront upon me. Coombe knew well
enough that I hadn't been consulted, and that I ought to have been. I
don't like that fellow Coombe. He may be a very good head-gardener, but
he doesn't come from these parts, and he doesn't seem to realize how
things are. He's respectful enough in manner, but he was giving me to
understand all the time that his master was a much bigger man than I
was, and he wished I'd clear out and leave him to go on with his work.
At one point I really did think of ordering him to knock it off. I
_could_ have done it, and I think he'd have been rather surprised if I
had."

"I'm glad you didn't. It's tiresome, of course; but we don't want to
quarrel with the Williams, do we? You're not going to tell him to stop
it, are you?"

"Oh, I suppose I shall have to swallow it. William is such a much bigger
man than I am now. He's made a lot of money, and they've knighted him. I
dare say they'll give him a peerage, if he makes much more. _I_ can't
stand out against him. I'm only an old dug-out of a soldier, and don't
matter."

"Well, dear, you're Squire of Hayslope, which counts for something. As
for me, I'd rather be Mrs. Eldridge of Hayslope Hall than Lady Eldridge
of Hayslope Grange. I don't mean I'd rather be me than Eleanor, though
of course I would. But _she_ isn't spoilt by all their money, and I
certainly don't want to quarrel with her."

"Oh, quarrel! I don't want to quarrel with William, either. We've been
good friends all our lives, and nobody's more pleased with his success
than I am. Still, what I feel, and feel strongly, is that he ought not
to make his success an excuse for changing his attitude towards me. I'm
his elder brother, and he has always treated me so until lately. He'd
never have thought of doing a thing like this a few years ago, and he
wants telling so. Then I dare say we shall get on as we ought to. This
has got to be the last of it. Anything further I _shall_ veto. The
Grange is mine as well as the Hall. When I'm dead he can do what he
likes with both of them. Until then he must be content with what he
has."

"Oh, I think he will be. And he's sure to see your point, if you put it
to him without irritation. Of course you _are_ irritated, dear, and it's
only natural. I should be myself, though I'm not an irritable person. I
flatter myself that I can see below the surface of things, and I'm sure
William is really devoted to you, and looks up to you. He wouldn't want
to do anything to displease you, and Eleanor would be horrified at the
very idea. Eleanor is very level-headed. I have a great admiration for
her, and I'm not a woman who gives her admiration to everybody. Just say
something to William when they come down again, and I'll say something
to Eleanor: and I'm sure everything will be all right for the future."

"They are not coming down this week; and I have something else to write
to William about. I shall write about this too, and if he takes what I
say in the right spirit I shan't mention it again."

Mrs. Eldridge rose. "Oh, I'm sure he will," she said, "especially if you
don't show irritation, dear. It's always a mistake to show irritation.
Now I must go and see about things. Lunch at half-past one. That will
give us a nice long morning."

She kissed him, as she always did, and went out. He had already lost
some of the irritation which she had so deprecated. If he had sat down
and written to his brother without further reflection, he would
probably have made a mild protest against the gardening scheme and at
the most reminded him of certain arguments that he had used to him
already. But his pen never got started very easily. He had to think over
the best way of putting the business affair upon which he had meant to
write, and when that was decided his mind went back to the other
question, and his anger rose again at the way in which he had been
treated. When he did sit down to his table, it was with a face as dark
as he had worn on riding into the stable-yard an hour before, and he
embarked upon his protest at once.

      "Dear William:--I was much annoyed this morning, and I must say
      surprised too, to find that you had disregarded my wishes in the
      matter of Barton's Close, and that there is a small army of men
      there already, cutting it up. I don't want to go again into the
      reasons I gave you on Sunday for my objection to turning the
      greater part of your holding into an extravagant pleasure garden.
      They seem to me to be eminently sound, and I do not remember your
      bringing any counter-arguments that would affect them. What you
      have done is simply to ignore them, and treat me on my own
      property as if my undoubted rights in a matter of this sort could
      be set aside with not even so much as a word of warning. I must
      say now at least, that this sort of treatment must stop. However
      superior your standing may be in the world outside, here at
      Hayslope I am on my own ground, and you ought to show respect to
      my position, as until lately you always have done."

A pause came to the rapid scratching of the pen, and Colonel Eldridge
looked up towards the garden outside, so quiet and green and happy, with
the whirr of the mowing-machine already to be heard where the girls were
busy with the lawn, and their young voices coming to him between their
bursts of energy. His face had cleared. He had written a straightforward
protest, without any beating about the bush. There was no need to say
more, though more might very well have been said. In days gone by
William had treated him with the respect due from a younger brother to
the head of the family. There had been affection between them from their
early childhood, but the elder brother had been the leading spirit, as
was only right, and when it had been necessary to rebuke the younger he
had done it in much the same way as this. William had accepted the
rebuke and they had remained as good friends as before. This would be
all that would be wanted. William could have his garden, which, after
all, didn't so much matter with things as they were now--poor Hugo dead
and he the one to come after--although--although--

The frown returned faintly to his face, and he added another paragraph:

      "You said on Sunday that in spite of all the money you had spent
      on your garden, this was really a better one. Well, you know that
      I have had to cut down labour in it, and at this moment Pamela and
      Judith are at work on the tennis lawn, which they have to keep in
      order themselves if they want to play on it. That's how it is
      here at Hayslope Hall now, and the girls are happy enough, though
      I can't spend what I used to on them, and what I should like to.
      So it really isn't necessary, especially in these days, when
      nearly everybody is feeling the pinch, to spend a fortune on a
      garden to get pleasure out of it. If I may say so, I think there's
      even a touch of vulgarity in it."

Another pause. He didn't want his pen to run away with him. Didn't the
last sentence go rather beyond what he could say to William without
offence?

No. They had had that out once, years before, in their father's time.
Edmund Eldridge was at home on leave from the Curragh, and William on
summer vacation from Cambridge. They were driving over to lunch at
Pershore Castle, and William appeared for the expedition in a pair of
lemon-coloured spats, a form of decorative summer attire then in its
infancy. The cavalry subaltern, spick and span in a style of sober
correctitude, objected to the lemon-coloured spats, and used the same
word, vulgarity, in connection with them; and the undergraduate bowed
meekly to his ruling and took them off.

Better leave it at that, though. He had said quite enough to bring
William to his bearings, and relieved his own mind of the annoyance that
had irked it. It was with quite another feeling underlying his words
that he went on to write about the estate affairs in which he was
relying upon William's help to deal with the Government. But this was
not a matter in which there could be much indication of any state of
feeling, unless it was annoyance with the obliquity of the Department
concerned; and his letter ended as his letters to William always did,
whatever their subject: "Your affec. brother, Edmund Eldridge."

He read the letter over again before dispatching it, but did not detach
himself from the varying moods in which it had been written, and when
Mrs. Eldridge asked him later what he had said to William, he told her
that he had just said that it would be a mistake to enlarge the Grange
garden any further, and had written chiefly about another matter.

"You didn't say that he mustn't make _this_ enlargement, did you, dear?"
she asked.

"Oh, no. He can go on with that, as he has begun it. I must say that I
think it _will_ be the best thing that he has done there. I can't say
that I like to see the pasture broken up, but there's been such a lot of
it during the war that perhaps it's not so much of a point as it was.
One seems to have to change one's views about everything nowadays. I
dare say I'm a bit old-fashioned. Got to recognize that I'm getting
older, I suppose."

"Dear man!" she said cooingly. "You'll never be old to me, and you don't
look old either. Of the two I think you look younger than William,
though he pays more attention to his appearance than you do. I hope I
don't look _very_ old myself. I don't really feel it. Still, women
_have_ to pay attention to their appearance when they reach the forties.
Otherwise, people would leave off looking at them. Eleanor doesn't,
much; but she's handsome in a different sort of way. I should think she
would outlast me; but I shan't make a fuss about it. I love Eleanor;
she's so reliable. I'm glad you don't really mind their having their
extra garden, dear. It will suit Eleanor better than all the tiresome
pergolas and things. She will be able to be quiet in it."




CHAPTER VII

YOUNG PEOPLE


The day had advanced to a heat unusual in our temperate climate. All
nature seemed to be holding its breath in an endeavour to support it.
There was no sound of bird life, and even the insects had ceased their
stir of activity. After one set, somewhat languidly pursued, the tennis
players betook themselves to the seats disposed near at hand, in a shade
almost as torrid as the sun-steeped open. Judith was the only member of
the party who showed no manifest signs of being overheated. Her almost
southern-looking beauty was enhanced by the heat. She laughed at the
others, and said that it could never be too hot for her.

Jim Horsham looked at her seriously, and said that in Australia he had
experienced a heat of a hundred and twenty degrees, and at Christmas
time, which made it all the more remarkable.

Pamela's eyes twinkled, and she roused herself from an exhausted
reclining to ask: "Why does it make it all the more remarkable?"

"Well--Christmas time, you know," replied Jim, in the tone of one
humouring an intellectually weaker vessel.

"Yes, I see that, Jim. But aren't the seasons just the other way round
in Australia?"

"Well, of course they are. That's just what I was saying."

She laughed, and subsided again. "It's too hot to argue," she said.

"When were you in Australia?" asked Fred Comfrey.

Horsham replied conscientiously, with dates of arrival and departure,
and the further information that he had acted as A. D. C. to an uncle
who was Governor of one of the States.

"How informative you are, Jim!" said Pamela lazily. But Judith
unexpectedly showed interest in Australia, and asked for exact details
of the behaviour of the thermometer in that Dependency, which was given
to her.

"Oh, it's much too hot to listen to all this," said Pamela, springing up
from her low chair with no appearance of any essential lack of energy,
in spite of the heat. "Let's go for a stroll in the wood."

This was said to Fred Comfrey, who responded with alacrity. His eyes had
repeatedly rested upon Pamela, across the luncheon table, where she had
talked and laughed with the gay freedom that was hers when she was
feeling what Norman would have called good and happy, and during the
game in which her light movements had been partnered with Horsham's
responsible but slow-moving efforts, to their ultimate defeat. Horsham
also looked at her as she rose, as if he would like to follow her; but
his explanations to Judith were in full flood, and had to be carried to
a conclusion. Pamela and Fred moved off together, and his eyes followed
them until they were lost among the trees, though there was no faltering
in his firm dealings with degrees Fahrenheit.

"Jim's a dear old thing," said Pamela, when they were out of hearing,
"but the idea sometimes crosses my mind that he's just a little bit of a
bore. I hate to think it of him, so the best thing is to run away when
he begins to show signs of it. We needn't run very far. There's a seat
just out of hearing of them."

It was the seat in which she and Norman had been surprised by Fred and
Hugo years before, from which had followed that quarrel that she had
never heard about. She had even forgotten the disturbance that led up to
it, but it was fresh enough in Fred's mind, and impelled him to ask with
some awkwardness. "What sort of a fellow has Norman grown into? I didn't
see him when he was here last week."

This brought her to a recollection of the hostility between them, and
she answered a little stiffly: "He's just as much of a dear as ever."
She had shared Norman's dislike of Fred in her childhood. She thought
him improved, and wanted him to have a new chance with all of them. But
she was on Norman's side--always, if it was a question of taking sides.

The improvement in Fred, from the hobbledehoy of twelve years before,
would have been remarked by anybody. He was still stocky of build, but
his frame had become smartened, and his stature, rather below the
average, only indicated its strength. The close-cropped moustache that
he wore had improved his appearance, and there was a degree of
self-confidence in his bearing which had not been there of old, when he
had been alternately truculent and diffident. Whether or not he had
improved in character was not so plain to see, but the years had brought
him at least to a better understanding of the face that a man was
expected to show before the world.

He laughed, a shade nervously, with his fingers at his moustache. If
Pamela had been looking at him at that moment she would have seen him
more like he had been as a boy than she had seen him hitherto in his
manhood. "Norman and I had a quarrel about you the very last time I saw
him," he said.

She did look at him then, with a hint of displeasure on her face.
Recollection began to come to her. "Oh, yes," she said. "It was when you
and Hugo found us here together."

He saw that he had made a mistake, and hastened to retrieve it. "I've
always been sorry for what happened then," he said. "I'm ready to tell
Norman so when I see him. Probably he has remembered it against me. We
didn't always get on very well as boys, but I always liked him,
really--and admired him too, for his pluck."

The slight frown had not yet left her face. "What did happen?" she
asked.

"Well, we fought," he said, greatly daring. "That's what I so much
regret. I was much bigger and stronger than he was. It didn't last long,
and I don't think I damaged him much, for I don't believe you or anybody
knew. Still, I don't excuse it in any way. I know I was rather a beast,
as a boy. When one goes out into the world, and gets some sense knocked
into one, one becomes ashamed of a good many things, and some of them
stick in one's mind. That did--that I fought a younger smaller boy, when
I'd been in the wrong from the first. It's always been a sort of
nightmare to me."

He spoke quietly, and with apparent sincerity. Pamela had a sense of
something underlying the quarrel of which he spoke that she did not want
to explore, brought by his first words--that the quarrel had been about
her. But it was possible to put that aside. Her youthful generosity was
touched by his admission. It fitted in with her own observation of him
that the man and the boy might be two quite different creations, and
this fact seemed to have presented itself to her out of her own
knowledge of life, upon which she prided herself. "I think horrid little
boys often turn into quite nice men," she said with a laugh. "I suppose
you were rather horrid as a boy, though I don't remember much about you.
So was poor Hugo, sometimes, though he turned into a very nice man. The
war altered him a lot, before he was killed--poor Hugo! That's the sad
thing, I think--that so many young men who were really made better by
what they were doing in the war were killed, after all."

"Yes," he said. "It was a pretty hard school for some of us. But I had
had a good deal of my schooling beforehand. I've always been glad that I
was pitched out into the world when I was quite young. I had to fight
for myself; and it wasn't fighting with boys younger than myself
then--rather the other way about. I suppose that was what made me so
ashamed of that business with Norman, and kept it alive in my mind."

She had forgiven him for that now, as he seemed to have found it
difficult to forgive himself. "I don't think Norman has kept up any
feeling about it," she said. "I suppose the smaller boy doesn't, does
he? When you were the smaller boy and had to fight, I suppose you rather
enjoyed it."

"Well, I did," he said. "It made a man of me. And it isn't over yet. I'd
practically won my battle over there, and could go back and rest on my
laurels. But I've a mind to begin it all again over here. There's
something exhilarating in the fight itself; and if I win it the rewards
will be greater."

It sounded rather fine to her. She did not translate the symbolism into
the struggle of a young man of considerable commercial astuteness to
gain a footing for himself, and when he had done so to seek the best
opportunity of enlarging it. He was worthy of respect, in having already
made a success of his work at an early age, and having left it to fight
for the great cause, in which he had also made good. There was stuff in
him, as there had been in his boyhood, when he had done well at his
school; and it showed up now, to the disguising of what might have
turned her against him. She had no suspicion that he was rapidly falling
under the spell of her bright charm, for he had learnt some wisdom and
self-control, and knew that there was a long and difficult road to
travel before she could be expected even to see him on her level. He was
content now, after the first little mistake, the reception of which had
given him warning, to arouse and keep alive her interest in him, and to
establish terms of friendship with her, upon which there would be no
suspicion of his presuming. She found it interesting to talk to him
already, and was inclined to back him up with Norman, though not to the
extent of turning herself into his champion. But he ought not to be held
to the mistakes of his boyhood; and with all his faults he had been poor
Hugo's friend, and had fought well in the war and been wounded, not
lightly.

She asked him about that, and he answered her questions, modestly
enough, though not without the design of attracting her sympathy. And
they talked a little about Hugo. He seemed to have seen more good in
Hugo than Norman had ever done, though Norman had never criticized him
to her. But Norman had never said, as Fred did, that Hugo was a
thoroughly good fellow, who had been a bit wild, like a good many more,
but no more than that; and of course his fine service in the war had
wiped out those mistakes many times over.

"Yes, that's what I feel," she said gratefully. "There was some trouble
with Jim. I don't know what it was, but I know that Lord Crowborough
made a fuss about it, and Dad was very angry. So it couldn't have been
very bad. Besides, you can see what Jim is. If poor Hugo is supposed to
have led him into mischief he couldn't have led him very far. _Nobody_
could lead Jim very far into mischief. He wouldn't go."

She laughed her tinkling laugh, which was delicious music in Fred's
ears. He laughed too, but did not make the mistake of taking up her
criticism of Horsham. "I heard something about that too," he said; "but
I don't know any details either. I shouldn't think there could have
been much in it. Naturally, Colonel Eldridge would have felt sore at his
being criticized at all."

Norman had always kept off this subject, and would answer no questions
about it. But he had never exonerated Hugo, though he had said that Jim
was ass enough for anything. Norman _was_ apt to be over-critical. He
had nothing much to say in favour of Hugo, her own brother, who had been
killed; he was contemptuous of Jim, who was only rather slow, and
perhaps dull; and he was almost violent in his dislike of Fred, whom he
hadn't seen for years. Of course he was head and shoulders above all
three of them in everything that mattered, but perhaps he should have
left it more to others to recognize that fact. At any rate, Fred was
giving her something now which Norman withheld from her, and she was
grateful for it.

Judith, left alone with Horsham, showed no disposition to regard herself
in the light of a sacrifice. It seemed as if she really did take an
interest in his statistics, and though she did not talk much herself her
attention had the effect of drawing him out to be more informative than
ever. "I do like to hear about real things," she said. "Such a lot that
you read is so--so fluffy: do you know what I mean?"

"I suppose you mean poetry," he said.

"Well, I like some poetry; but it doesn't seem to be the sort that
people who think they know call good poetry." She laughed at herself,
the low musical laugh that was all her own. "Pam and Norman are always
making fun of my tastes."

"Does Pamela like poetry?" Horsham asked, with a shade of anxiety.

"Oh, yes," she said, and a hint of mischief showed itself in her eyes.
"Can you repeat any by heart?"

"Well, I don't know that I can, except the things I used to have to
learn. I've never forgotten them. It seems as if I can't forget anything
that I've once learnt. I could repeat 'The Wreck of the Hesperus,' which
I learnt when I was five or six, I should think--you know, about the
skipper had taken his little daughter to bear him company--I should
think I could repeat that now, without a mistake."

The dark eyes were dancing with mischief now. "Oh, yes, I know it," she
said. "It's lovely. And funnily enough it's one of Pamela's favourite
poems, and Norman's too."

"Is it?" said Horsham doubtfully. "I didn't really think much of it
myself; it was only that I did learn it once and couldn't forget it.
Still, of course it is by Longfellow."

"Yes, I know. I like Longfellow myself. Pam and Norman pretend they
don't. But Pam loves that particular poem. If you'd say it over to
her--!"

"Well, I don't know that I should care about doing that. I expect she
knows so much more poetry than I do."

"You could get her to talk about poetry and then just bring it out
casually. Say you think it's so salient--that's the way she and Norman
talk--and then say it over. I think she'd be pleased at finding you
liked something that she did."

"Well, perhaps I might do that. What word did you say--salient?"

"Yes, or basic. That's another word they use a good deal. Perhaps you
might bring them both in."

"Oh, I don't pretend to be learned in that sort of way. And as a matter
of fact I don't really care much for poetry and all that sort of thing.
I'm like you: I like facts."

Judith, having laid her train, returned to serious conversation. "I
don't know why one should be ashamed of it," she said. "But I do keep my
actual tastes rather dark before Pam. Of course she's much cleverer than
I am, and I don't mind her poking fun at me a bit; in fact I rather
enjoy it. But you're the first person I've ever confessed to that I
really like dates and things of that sort. I find them--refreshing. Do
you feel that too?"

Horsham's face lit up. It seemed that he did, and that he had never
forgotten those of the Kings and Queens of England, which he had also
learnt in childhood. They recited them together, with mutual pleasure,
in a sort of measured chant, and laughed heartily when they had done so.

"Of course, that capacity, which we both seem to have, is going to be
very useful to me in my career," Horsham said. "If you can get facts at
your fingers' ends, and keep them there--"

"What career do you mean?" inquired Judith. "I didn't know you'd got
one."

"Oh, yes. Don't tell anybody, because it isn't _quite_ settled yet, but
I'm going to be Private Secretary to--unpaid, of course--to--well,
perhaps I'd better not mention his name, even to you; but he's a Cabinet
Minister. Perhaps I shall try to get into Parliament by and by."

"You can't, if you're a lord, can you?"

He explained that difficulty away for her for ever, so exhaustively did
he handle it. He was going to take politics seriously. He thought it his
duty; but it would also be his pleasure. "I've played the fool a bit,"
he confessed; "but that's all over now. I was young, and--"

He broke off in some confusion. He had suddenly remembered Hugo, and
didn't know how much she knew of the disturbance of three years before.

She knew no more than Pamela, which was scarcely anything; but they had
discussed it together. "You and Hugo played the fool together, didn't
you?" she asked, with a slight frown.

He was rather taken aback by her directness, but he spoke as directly,
after a short pause of reflection. "Hugo was blamed for what was just as
much my fault as his," he said stoutly. "He was older than me--that was
all. It's all over long ago--poor fellow!--and we don't want to think
about it any more."

"I'm glad you've said it like that," she said with a glance of approval
at him. "So will Pamela be. I shall tell her. But don't _you_ say
anything to her about it."

"You don't think--?"

"No, I don't. What you've said is quite enough, and we don't want to
talk about it any more at all. Let's go and find Pamela, and Fred. We
might have another game before tea."

Horsham was quite willing to go and find Pamela, though he had
unexpectedly enjoyed his chat with Judith, who struck him as a girl of
quite remarkable intelligence. He told her so, as they walked together.
"Of course you were only a kid when I was here last," he said, making
allowances for her, and for himself.

"Yes," said Judith. "And you weren't much to write home about, either."

He looked surprised at this speech, until she laughed, when he laughed
too. "You and Pamela both like chaffing a fellow, don't you?" he said.
"I suppose some fellows wouldn't see it, and be offended. But I'm rather
quick at seeing things, and I don't mind."

Judith suddenly felt an immense liking for him, compounded in a curious
way of respect and tenderness. He was a heavily built young man, though
his figure was upright, and had the activity of his youth. His face was
neither handsome nor ugly, but there was a look of honesty and
simplicity in it that gave it character. She felt a strong compunction
at having prepared a trap for him. "I was chaffing you when I advised
you to recite poetry to Pamela," she said hurriedly. "Don't you. At
least, don't recite 'The Wreck of the Hesperus.' She'd think that tosh;
and so do I."

This disturbed him for a moment, but he soon recovered. "I was an ass
not to see what you were driving at," he said. "But you must remember
that _I_ never said I thought that was a fine poem."

"No, you didn't," she said soothingly. "And I don't suppose either of us
really care much for what _they_ would call fine poetry. What I do like
of Longfellow's is his 'Psalm of Life'."

"Do you mean that?" he asked; and when she said she did he repeated
slowly and impressively, as they walked beneath the trees:

  "'Life is real, life is earnest,
    And the grave is not its goal.
  Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
    Was not spoken of the soul.'

"Ah, yes. That's poetry. I don't envy people who can't see the beauty of
that."




CHAPTER VIII

WELLSBURY


Sir William and Lady Eldridge were spending the week-end at a great
country house, the seat of a Cabinet Minister with whom Sir William had
worked arduously during the war, to the undoubted advantage of the
Department of which Lord Chippenham had been the head, and also to the
advantage of the British taxpayer. For this Department--or at least that
part of its work for which Sir William had been responsible--had escaped
those accusations of waste and extravagance which were so freely and so
regrettably made. The work had been done quietly, resourcefully and
economically, and there were few who knew anything about its details. In
fact, but for the large number of people who were rewarded for services
during the war of whom nobody had ever heard before their names appeared
in the Honours List, Sir William's knighthood might have aroused
speculation. He had deserved it, at least as well as most, but it was
not generally known what he had done, and there were to be found here
and there those who thought that he had made money out of the war, and
that his knighthood had eventuated in some way out of the money he had
made. As a matter of fact he had done five years' hard work for nothing,
and would have been richer than he was if he had confined his energies
to his own affairs. But that never troubled him. He was rich enough for
all ordinary purposes as it was, even with the ruinous taxation to which
his income was subjected; and now that his public work had been wound
up, and he was free again to work for himself, he was likely to become
richer still.

There had been two flies in the ointment of his public success. One was
that a K. B. E. was hardly a sufficient reward for his valuable
services. He knew how valuable they had been, and that others who had
done work that could not be compared with his had won regards far
higher. He had asked for nothing, and had not breathed to a soul except
his wife the disappointment he had felt at the closing of the chapter.
Perhaps if he had advertised himself more-- But reflection always
brought him the gratifying sense of having done his work not for the
sake of reward, and he was too active and eager in pursuing the aims to
which he had now returned to dwell upon the disappointment. At the same
time his chief had also known the value of his work, and might, if he
had exerted himself, have influenced a higher recognition of it.

The other source of dissatisfaction was a much smaller affair. In fact
he was rather ashamed of allowing it entrance to his mind, and had never
mentioned it to his wife.

Lord Chippenham was an eminent public servant. He was also--or rather
Lady Chippenham was--an eminent personality in the social world. Sir
William had worked with him over years, but had never become intimate
with him. He had dined once or twice with him in London; but in those
strenuous times of the war that meant nothing, and since the war, when
social entertainments were beginning to take their normal course, he had
not even done that. Indeed, Lord Chippenham seemed to have forgotten him
altogether, and he could not help feeling a little sore about it.

But then at last had come the invitation to Wellsbury, the famous
Elizabethan house where it had been Lady Chippenham's pleasure to gather
together parties of all that was most brilliant in the world, not only
of fashion but of art and letters and whatever else could add variety
and interest to her parties. The invitation gave him great pleasure,
which he could not keep from his wife, who took it calmly enough. There
were plenty of what are called "good houses" open to them, and if it had
been their ambition to climb into the social prominence that is
represented by mixing always with those who keep in the busy swim, there
would have been no difficulty about it. That was no more of an end to
him than it was to her; but Wellsbury was different. The climbers were
not asked there; or if they were, their climbing ambitions were not the
qualities most apparent in them. Also, you went to Wellsbury to enjoy
yourself.

Sir William enjoyed himself exceedingly. So did Lady Eldridge, who found
people among the numerous guests whom she liked and who liked her. They
were not all strangers either. The Eldridges had a large circle of
acquaintance in London, which touched other circles, and was always
enlarging itself. There were people at Wellsbury during that week-end
who knew less of the world gathered there than they did.

At least half the guests bore names that were well known, and some were
of real eminence. And there were many young people, who made themselves
merry, and were encouraged to do so, not only by their hostess, who was
merry and high-spirited herself, but by the venerated Minister of State,
who listened with a twinkling eye to the hubbub of talk and laughter
that arose around him, and sometimes contributed to it. He spent much of
his time during the day with the children who were collected there with
the rest, and had a grandchild seated on either side of him at lunch on
Sunday. He was a very charming benign old gentleman in his own lovely
home; the word "harmless" might perhaps have been used to describe him
as he showed himself there, and William Eldridge gained some amusement
from the recollection of episodes in his official hours, when that
epithet would not have seemed suitable.

It did occur to Sir William once or twice during those lovely summer
days to ask himself whether he had been invited to Wellsbury with any
particular object. He and his wife had been received there almost as if
they were habitués of the house; and yet it was over a year since he had
had word with Lord Chippenham at all, and this private recognition of
him was at least tardy. But there was so much to see and to do, in the
great house, full of its wonderful treasures, and full, too, of
agreeable and interesting people, that he gave himself up to the flow
of it all, and put aside the idea of anything to come of the visit
except the pleasure of the visit itself.

Rain came on late on Sunday morning, and though it was not enough to
keep everybody indoors and never looked like continuing, Sir William
took the opportunity of writing a few letters after luncheon. There was
a little panelled room off the billiard-room, which he had seen the
evening before, with just one lovely early Dutch picture in it, and he
went there rather than to his own room upstairs, partly because he
wanted to look at the picture again, partly because of the satisfaction
of making use of as many rooms as possible in this beautiful ancient
house, in which for two days he was at home.

There was nobody in the billiard-room, or in the inner room, which was
open to it, but also in part concealed. He had been there for some
little time when two young men came into the billiard-room and began to
play. He recognized them by their voices as Nigel Byrne, Lord
Chippenham's private secretary, and William Despencer, the youngest son
of the house. He went on writing, being now immersed in what he was
doing, as his habit was, and paid no further attention to them. It did
not occur to him that they would not know that anybody was in the inner
room; he did not think about it at all, concentrated as his mind was on
his writing. The click of the balls and the voices of the young men, who
were playing in desultory fashion and talking all the time, came to him
as an accompaniment to his thoughts, but with no more meaning than the
noises of traffic would have had if he had been writing in a room in
London.

But presently, as he leant back in his chair to consider something, a
phrase struck upon his ear, and he woke up to the disagreeable fact that
they were talking about him, and for all he knew might have been talking
about him for the last ten minutes.

"The Chief thinks a lot of him. He did extraordinarily good work in the
war."

"I know he did. These big business men did make themselves useful--some
of them. Did pretty well out of it too."

"Eldridge didn't."

It was at this point that Sir William woke up to their speech, but what
had come immediately before his name was mentioned, which his ears had
taken in without conveying it to his brain, also turned itself into
meaning.

"Perhaps not; though you never know. Anyhow, he's a new man, and I think
we've saddled ourselves with quite enough of them. I think we ought to
get back to the old sort--the men who come of good stock. They've always
been the backbone of our party, and--"

The speaker was surprised by the appearance of the man he had been
criticizing. Sir William stood in the arched recess at the end of the
room, his pen in his hand, and a smile upon his face.

"I'm awfully sorry," he said. "I've been writing in there, and have only
just realized that you were talking about me."

The young men stared at him in consternation, and he spoke again, with
the air of one who meant to dominate the situation. That was exactly
what he did mean. A sudden crisis always strung him up to the most
effective control of his powers, and he had formed his decision in the
few seconds that had elapsed between the mention of his name and his
standing before them.

"I really haven't been listening," he said. "I was too busy with what I
was doing, or I'd have stopped you before. But I'm not exactly a new
man, you know. You can look me up in a book, if you like. Eldridge of
Hayslope, in Downshire. And I give you my word I haven't made a bob out
of the war." Then he turned to go back to his writing.

William Despencer had been collecting himself during this speech. He was
a young man of a serious cast of mind, conspicuously honest and
straightforward, though of an outlook not of the widest. "I'm sorry you
overheard what we were saying," he said. "And I apologize for the
mistake I seem to have made. I'm glad you corrected me."

Sir William turned to him again, but Nigel Byrne broke in before he
could speak. "You heard me defend you," he said with a pleasant smile,
which, with his attractive appearance and ready speech was part of his
qualification for the position he so admirably filled. "William was
talking generally, and I happened to know that you weren't of the type.
You'd have heard me say so when he came to the end of his speech; but
he's always too long-winded."

"Oh, I don't mind that a bit," said Sir William. "I've been doing the
things that the new men do--and some of the old ones too--for some
years past. It was a natural mistake. I'm only sorry I let you in for it
by keeping quiet in here. To tell you the truth, I wasn't thinking of
you. Perhaps I ought to apologize for that. Anyhow, please forget it."

"We will," said Byrne. "No offence meant and none taken, eh? I was
coming to look for you after William and I had had our little game. The
Chief wants you to go for a stroll with him at half-past three, if it
clears up, and if not, will you go and have a chat with him in his room?
I'll take you to him."

The invitation was so significant that it put out of Sir William's mind
the awkwardness of the late occurrence, as he waited for the time when
the great man should be ready for him. Perhaps it was only a mark of
politeness to a guest, and there would be talk about this and that, but
about nothing that would matter much to him. The work that they had been
engaged upon together was over, and Lord Chippenham was not likely to
want to go back to that. What could he want to see him about then? He
hardly permitted himself to conjecture; but there was a sense of
excitement hanging over him, and he looked many times at his watch as he
went here and there in the house and examined the pictures and the other
treasures of it, with appreciation, but not with all his attention.

When he had left the billiard-room the two young men looked at one
another and Nigel Byrne laughed. "He took it very well, I think," he
said. "Quite a nice fellow!"

William Despencer kept a grave face. "I wish I'd known he was there,"
he said. "Why didn't he let us know he was there when we came in?"

"Oh, I don't think he was eavesdropping. I say, let's look him up. I'm
bound to say I never thought of him as anything but the usual rich city
fellow, with no father to speak of."

"Like Melchizedek. I thought you were going to defend him against my
aspersions, if he'd given you time."

"That was my famous tact, William. Eldridge of what, did he say? Ah,
here it is."

There were current books of reference on a table in the billiard-room,
and Byrne had opened one which dealt faithfully with the County Families
and their genealogies.

"Oh, quite respectable!" he said, as they read the entry together. "He's
next man in, too, do you see? Present man's only son killed in the war.
He was at Harrow and Cambridge. We've done him an injustice, William. If
at any time he likes to make a little contribution to party funds, and
somebody or other recommends him for a peerage, he won't have to begin
everything from the beginning like so many of them."

"Is that the idea?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Peerages aren't bought and sold in the market,
you know, William. You ought to know better than that."

"Well, I still think the mistake was a natural one," said William
Despencer, turning away. "He's too elaborate altogether. Those clothes!
Just what a rich city fellow would wear who'd just discovered Saville
Row."

"They're no better than mine. He's a good-looking fellow and likes to
keep his youth. The Chief thinks a lot of him, you know. He'd like to
work with him too, if he was in Parliament."

"His wife's a nice woman. I shall talk to her this evening. I'm sorry he
heard me say what I did."

The sun had come out by the time Lord Chippenham was ready for his
afternoon walk. Sir William's expectations of a serious talk were a
little dashed when he discovered that it was to be taken in the company
of two little granddaughters and two little dogs, and as they went down
through the gardens and across the park it seemed as if Lord
Chippenham's attention would be chiefly taken up by the four of them.
However, no other grown-up person had been invited to join the party,
and presently the children and the dogs detached themselves, and only
returned to their base now and then, when Lord Chippenham broke off in
whatever he might have been saying and talked to them until they were
off again.

When the walk was over, and Sir William tried to give some concise
account of what had happened to his wife, he found it difficult to put
any particular point to it. Lord Chippenham seemed to want him in some
undefined way, but had made no actual proposal. He ought to be in
Parliament--perhaps as a preliminary to--to office? It almost seemed as
if that were indicated; but it was all so vague, and the children were
always interrupting at the most critical moments. At one time it almost
seemed as if he were hinting that a seat in the House of Lords would be
the simplest way to--to what? Really, it was impossible to say. The only
definite thing that could be taken hold of was that when they had come
in, Lord Chippenham, turning to go into his room, had said: "Well, I
think we could do good work together again, and I hope we shall."

The i's seemed to be dotted to some extent later on in the day by Nigel
Byrne, who made himself agreeable to Lady Eldridge, and told her that
the Chief thought a lot of her husband. "Of course, he ought to be in
Parliament," he said. "Has he ever thought about it, do you know?"

Eleanor thought that was intended as a preliminary to anything that
might be preparing, though why Lord Chippenham or Mr. Byrne couldn't say
so outright she couldn't think. And why had the constituency of West
Loamshire been mentioned as a likely one, to her and not to William?
Politics seemed to be a curiously mysterious game. Still, West
Loamshire, where there was likely to be a vacancy shortly--though this
was not to be repeated--_had_ been mentioned; and, "I suppose your
husband knows George Weldon--the Whip, you know," had been one of the
things said that she had to report. She supposed they were meant to put
two and two together. Probably, if William went to see George Weldon, he
would get on to a more direct path altogether.

They talked it all over, motoring back to London the next morning.
William had sometimes considered a parliamentary career, but not very
seriously. He had been too busy with his affairs to take a great deal
of interest in politics except where they touched his interests. It
would be beginning something all over again, and the preliminary steps
to candidature and election would take up a lot of time and money. But
it would be different if the preliminaries were made easy for him, and
there was something waiting for him that other men had to work up to
through years. He was confident of being able to fill any position that
might come to him, and had enough patriotism to make the prospect of
doing something for his country that he could do better than other
people attractive to him.

Eleanor would encourage him too. She was quite as interested in the
possibilities they discussed together as he was. He knew that she was
not particularly interested in his financial career. It had already
brought them to the point where they had everything they wanted that
money would give them, and that was all that business meant to her. What
was the good of going on for the rest of your life just making more
money? But she had liked him to tell her about the work he had been
doing during the war, and it would be the same if he took up public work
again.

They fell silent for a time, after they had talked it all over, and the
big car carried them easily and swiftly along the country roads.
Wellsbury was a two hours' run from London by the most direct route, but
they were making it rather longer, so as to see more of the country and
to avoid the straight high roads.

Sir William never failed to enjoy a ride in this fine car of his, which
he had recently acquired, at immense expense. He did thoroughly enjoy
all the things that his money bought him, and liked spending it on them;
and the point of satiety which lies somewhere ahead on that road was not
yet in sight with him. He enjoyed the luxurious upholstery of his new
car; and even the well-clothed back of his chauffeur, with the discreet
figure of Eleanor's maid beside it, gave him satisfaction, as adding to
the conveniences of his life and hers. He liked to feel well dressed
too, and that Eleanor should also be so; and that she should be the kind
of woman who carried off beautiful and expensive clothes. He thought
that she looked the equal of any of the women who had been at Wellsbury,
and he was proud of her, and of the notice that had been taken of her.

Whatever might be the result of this visit, or if there should be no
result of it, it stood as a source of completed gratification in itself.
It seemed to have put the seal of success upon his career, and to have
set him where he rightly belonged. It was not the sort of recognition
that could have been gained by the possession of money, though in his
case success in money-making had indirectly led up to it. His
reflections were crossed by a momentary shadow at the remembrance of the
mistake those two young men--or at least one of them--had made about him
yesterday. Surely Lord Chippenham's son might have known that a merely
new rich man would not have been made welcome at Wellsbury as he had
been. There had been no one remotely resembling that breed among the
guests of this party. Still, he had put that right, and it didn't really
matter. He was perhaps aware in the background of his mind that
exuberance was a note to be watchful of; his upbringing and the
standards it had inculcated had made him careful to prune himself. He
would not have been so careful if criticism from time to time had not
shown him the necessity. Edmund, to whom as a young man he had looked up
as the pattern of quiet, self-possessed good breeding, had criticized
him on those grounds. He had never quite lost the feeling that Edmund
was a finer type of gentleman than himself--until lately, when his own
brilliant gifts had brought him into such prominence as Edmund would
never attain to. Now he was a little impatient of that old feeling of
slight inferiority to his brother, and whatever had survived of it
seemed to have been wiped out by this visit to Wellsbury. Edmund would
never have been invited to such a house unless it had happened to lie in
his local zone of dignity as a landowner.

Sir William considered, in the glow of his satisfaction, as he was
carried along between the hedgerows and the full-blossomed trees, the
stock from which he had sprung and the altitudes to which he had arisen,
which wanted some adjustment if he were to be proud of both, as his
inclination was.

A family that went back two or three hundred years, and for most of the
time as landowners in the same county, was something that only a small
minority could claim. Yet the Eldridges had never really done anything
that put them above the ruck of country squires. They had intermarried
here and there with families of higher standing; they had kept their
heads up in the world, and were in all the County Histories--as names,
but little more. Their dignity had hardly extended beyond the head of
the family for the time being. The younger sons were scarcely better off
in that respect than the sons of other men, who could give them the
right sort of education and start in life. He himself had begun life
with no greater advantages than his contemporaries at school and
university of birth not so good as his, and if he had not brought his
own exceptional gifts into play he would have had just the position that
his success at the Bar might have brought him, and no higher. Of course
the altered circumstances brought about by the death of his brother's
heir would have made a great difference to him, at least in prospect;
but that loomed small now. But for the sentimental attachment which he
felt towards the home of his fathers, he would not have cared much now
to be Squire of Hayslope. It would not now be his chief claim to
consideration, and if he had wished he could have bought himself a finer
house than Hayslope and a larger property. Still, Hayslope did mean a
good deal to him, and he was inclined to congratulate himself upon being
content with the enlarged Hayslope Grange as his country house, and the
consequent playing second fiddle to his brother, when he could so easily
have been first somewhere else.

He spoke some of the thoughts which were running through his mind when
he broke the silence to say to his wife: "I'm afraid poor old Edmund is
having a thin time at Hayslope. Hard luck that the owner of a property
like that should be pinched, as most of them are in these days, and we
who used to think ourselves so much less fortunate should have got
quite past them!"

She thought it nice of him to be thinking about his brother's
difficulties at this time. She knew that he was exalted by the visit to
Wellsbury, and the expectation of something to come out of it. He might
have been thought to be full of his own affairs.

"I've had them a good deal on my mind," she said--"Edmund and Cynthia
too, and the girls. But we can do something for them, can't we? I think
I've been able to do something for Cynthia already, and without making
her seem under an obligation."

"Oh, you can do things for Cynthia. But Edmund--he stands so on his
dignity, you see. I think he's inclined to stand too much on his
dignity, at least with me. After all, a country squire--I've come to be
a good deal more than that, and I'm the one person whom he might accept
help from."

"Does he really need help?"

"Oh, he can get along all right, of course. But it's a different life
for him now. I suppose I couldn't expect him to accept money from me so
that they could carry on in the way they did before the war. I'd give it
him readily enough if he would, and be glad to. But there are ways in
which I _could_ help him--one in particular. But one must take him as he
is. We must do what we can for Cynthia and the girls, and I shall always
be on the lookout to do something for him if I can. I've got on and he's
stood still--or gone back, rather. I don't want him to go back any
further."




CHAPTER IX

LETTERS


The Eldridges arrived home in time for luncheon. They lived in a large
house in Belgravia, old enough to have some character of space and
dignity, but old enough also to have been exceedingly inconvenient if
much money had not been spent in modernizing it. It had been their
London home for about fifteen years, and was a trifle behind the latest
fashion in furnishing and decoration. The latest of such fashions, it
should be recognized, rests upon the recognition of the value of older
fashions, which in its fulness dates from a very few years back. There
was plenty of good old furniture in the Eldridges' house, some of it now
of considerable value, but it would have welded itself into quite a
different whole if the "doing up" and furnishing of the house had been
taken in hand some years later than it was. The time was approaching
when Sir William would acquire another, possibly still larger house, and
begin all over again. He was already vaguely dissatisfied with this one;
but it had qualities which pleased him too, and he had never quite lost
the sense of satisfaction with which he had moved into it from a smaller
house and spent money upon making it the place in which they should live
the larger life that was then opening out before them. His own room,
with its outlook upon a little square of walled-in garden, was a very
refuge, and he and his wife sometimes sat there in the few evenings when
they were at home together alone, in a grateful seclusion of green
morocco and bright Turkey carpet, with books and prints on the
Morris-decked walls, and only the huge and hideous American desk, of the
palest possible growth of oak, to indicate the sterner purposes to which
the room was primarily dedicated.

Sir William went into this room on their arrival, and turned over the
pile of letters and papers that were there awaiting him. He opened a few
of them, and glanced over their contents, and then unlocked his desk,
but only to put certain of the papers away. He was too excited to take
up his immediate affairs in the short time that remained before
luncheon, though on ordinary occasions he would have done so, for he
hated wasting even a few minutes of his time.

He had thought over what had happened, and what might happen during the
journey to London. But, coming thus into his familiar room, he seemed to
see it all with a new significance. He had the feeling that he had come
back to this room a different man--a bigger man than the one who had
used it before; and the feeling rather surprised him. For, after all, to
spend a few days in a large country house was no new experience to him,
he had been in close contact with Lord Chippenham before for many months
upon end, and the idea of a seat in Parliament was not entirely a
novelty. What had happened, he decided, as he walked up and down the
room, or stood looking out upon the green and bright colour of the
little paved square of garden, was that he had attained to recognition,
when he had thought that the official chapter of his life was closed. It
set a higher value on it, even to himself. He was not the same man as
had for so long occupied this room, and thought of his public work as
efficiently done for the good of his country, but as already a thing of
the past. The chapter was not closed, but might lead to other chapters,
beyond the present scope of his imagination. It had put him among the
men of his time who counted for something. Lord Chippenham, whatever his
stirring of expectation might have meant, undoubtedly thought of him as
counting for something already. The last year, during which he had
attended to his affairs, and spent as much of his time as he could spare
from them at Hayslope, had only been a lull. His foot was already on the
ladder of distinction, and he might mount on it higher than he had ever
thought of mounting.

He was summoned to luncheon, and took some of his as yet unopened
letters in with him. He did not come to the one from his brother until
he and his wife were alone together.

"Well, I never--!"

Lady Eldridge looked up, to see his face dark and angry. "Read that," he
said, throwing the letter across to her; "the first part, I mean," and
waited till she had done so, though phrases of indignation kept rising
to his lips, which he stifled by occupying them with food and drink, too
hastily consumed.

He did not wait for her remarks, when she looked up again, with
consternation on her face. "You heard what I said about Edmund only
just this morning," he broke out. "I'm always thinking what I can do for
him, and that's the way he treats me in return. Really, it's
incredible!"

"I must say I'm surprised," she said unwillingly as it seemed, and
turned to the letter again.

"It's beyond everything," he went on angrily. "'This treatment must
stop'--what is it that he says? Haven't I always deferred to him at
Hayslope, because he's my elder brother, and lately I've been sorry for
him? What on earth can he mean by writing to me like that? _What_
treatment, I should like to know! I've spent thousands of pounds on his
property, and should never have got a penny of it back if it hadn't been
for Hugo's death. His position on his own ground! What have I ever done
to belittle it?"

She looked up again. "I thought you did consult him about the garden,"
she said.

"Of course I did. I've never left anything of that sort undone, though
under the circumstances in which we stand to one another most men
wouldn't have expected it. But I know what he is where his rights are
concerned."

"But didn't he give his consent?"

Sir William hesitated. "After that letter, I suppose one has to say that
he didn't. But you can see how it was. There was absolutely no reason
for his withholding it. I practically told him I was going to do it, and
he put forward some objections, which I met. He didn't press them, and I
went away thinking it was all understood. If you like to say so, perhaps
I didn't ask his permission at all. It would have seemed absurd to do
so."

"I am very sorry that he has taken it like this. Of course his letter is
unreasonable, but I think it is only meant to assert his rights. He
doesn't mean to stop you going on."

"Oh, I'm not going on in the face of that. I shall wire to Coombe to
stop the work. Besides, he does mean that, doesn't he? Let me read it
again."

She handed over the letter. Her face was disturbed. "I don't think
Cynthia can have seen it before it was sent," she said.

"There's nothing about going on. I'm told that I've overstepped my
rights, and 'this sort of treatment must now stop.' And fancy writing
this! 'I think there's a touch of vulgarity in it.' Vulgarity! It's a
most offensive letter. One would say that he was laying himself open to
quarrel with me. I'm not going to quarrel with him; but I shall be
precious careful not to give him a handle against me again."

"I don't think he wants to quarrel. It's his way. He wouldn't think of
the effect his words might have. I don't think he even wants to stop you
making the garden."

"Oh, I'm not going on with it now. For one thing, this would spoil all
the pleasure of it. After all, I've got other things to think of besides
garden-making at the Grange. It has just been a recreation, but now I
dare say I shall be too much occupied to be able to pay so much
attention to it. Really, you know, it's ridiculous for Edmund to give
himself those airs of superiority over me. I've given way too much to
them in the past. I wouldn't say so to anybody but you, but what _is_
Edmund's position compared to mine? I'm the last man in the world to
give myself airs because of what I've done in the world; and with him
especially I've made nothing of it, because--well, because I've hated
the idea of making a contrast between him and myself. But what I can't
help feeling is that _he_ might consider all that too. I think if I were
the elder brother I should have shown a good deal more pleasure than
_he_ has ever done at whatever success I have had."

"Perhaps he's a little bit jealous. I've thought that sometimes. I don't
think Cynthia is, and perhaps such a feeling might be expected more from
her than from him."

"Of course he's jealous. That's at the root of it all. It's a very
unworthy feeling from one brother to another."

"I don't think he would recognize it as jealousy, and if he detected
such a feeling in himself I think he would be ashamed of it. He _is_
fond of you, there's no doubt about it, and he relies on you, perhaps
more than he knows. He _can't_ mean to quarrel, and if you don't treat
this letter as an offence it will all blow over."

"My dear girl, what would you have me to do? I'm not going to sit down
under it. My position at Hayslope would be impossible if I were to give
in to this sort of thing."

"No, dear, I don't think so. You know Edmund so well. You know that he
is fond of you. You have always liked being near one another, and you've
had little jars before, which have made no difference."

"Nothing like this. I call a letter like that positively insulting."

"It can't have been meant to be that. If you take it in the right way
he'll be sorry for having written it. If you take it as an insult--"

"What _is_ the right way of taking it then?"

She thought for a moment, and said with slightly heightened colour: "You
are bigger than Edmund. If he has made a mistake, you can afford not to
make the same mistake."

His face changed at that. "You always put me right," he said, with a
smile at her. "Yes, of course. Poor old fellow! He's had a lot to try
him. He doesn't get out into the world as I do, and of course he broods
over his troubles. Any little thing upsets him."

She smiled at him in her turn. "That's how I'm sure it is," she said.
"If he does object to this garden plan, it isn't much to give it up, is
it? Just a little extra amusement, as you said."

He laughed, rather ruefully. "I don't like giving up something that I've
set in hand," he said. "But if it will placate my respected brother--"

"Perhaps he won't want you to, if you return him a soft answer."

"I'll do that all right. If a thing's worth doing at all it's worth
doing well. Besides, you've blown away my annoyance, and, after all,
it's more in accordance with my nature to be generous than to be
resentful--don't you think?"

That was just what she did think. He was quick-tempered, but she had had
abundant experience of the quick revulsion of feeling that came to him
when his generosity was appealed to, and loved him for it. Her own
impulsions drove her upon a more level course. He had no idea of the
anger that his brother's letter had aroused in her mind, that had held
her even while she was pleading for him, and that held her still, when
by her prompting he had chased his away from him. Her accusation of
jealousy had been the only sign of it in her speech, and she had
entirely agreed with him when he had stigmatized that as a most unworthy
feeling under the circumstances that had called it forth. It had cost
her an effort to insist upon the ties that held the brothers together.
To her mind, Colonel Eldridge, with his narrow outlook, and his claims
of superiority, was undeserving of the affection which her husband
constantly showed towards him, and showed little enough of it in return,
though it was true that he relied upon his brother, and made use of him.

Still, when she was alone and thought it all over, she was glad that she
had spoken as she had, putting aside her own feelings, and playing, as
she always could, upon his, which were so large and generous. There was
Cynthia to be thought of, who was putting a brave face upon the
restrictions that had so marred her life, and who expressed only to her,
because she was her best-loved friend, what they meant to her. And there
were the dear children, whom she loved, and the more because she had no
daughter of her own. No, it would never have done to allow a breach to
open, as might well have happened, if Edmund's crabbed obstinacy had
been answered in the way it deserved. They were too much bound up
together at Hayslope not to make all allowances for one another, even
where no allowance was rightly due. Besides, the path of tolerance was
always the right path, though it might not be easy to take it.

To Sir William, that path had its allurements. His nature was generous
and he recognized it. It was with a glow of self-gratulation that he sat
down after luncheon to answer his brother's letter; and he enjoyed the
art with which he brought to bear upon it, so that his meaning should be
made plain, and also his large-minded tolerance.

Beginning "My dear Edmund," he first of all wrote fully about the affair
in which he was interesting himself on behalf of his brother. A good
deal depended upon the way in which he dealt with it, and he showed that
his interests were deeply engaged. In fact, something had already been
done, for the Government Department concerned was that of which Mr.
Vincent, one of his fellow guests at Wellsbury, was the head.

"We have just returned from our visit to Wellsbury, and fortunately
Henry Vincent was staying there. I had a talk with him about the
principle of the thing, and I think I may say that I put the right idea
into his head, and that he will act on it generally. I told him that
there was a personal application of it which I wouldn't trouble him
with, and he told me the right man to go to, and said that I could say
he had done so. I shall follow it up to-morrow, and I hope everything
will be satisfactorily arranged. It is fortunate that I was able to talk
it over with Vincent. I had never happened to meet him before, and it
didn't do me any harm to come first into contact with him at Wellsbury."

That was that. Edmund would be pleased at the probability of this
tiresome affair being settled, and perhaps impressed with the ease with
which such settlements were arranged, when it was possible to approach
the well-guarded head of a Department on equal terms.

And now for the other matter! which should be dealt with shortly but
decisively, and cleared out of the way altogether as a source of
complaint.

He considered it for a time. He was sincere in his desire to act
generously in face of an unreasonable attack. But the offence was really
considerable, pointed as it was by that disagreeable charge of
vulgarity, and it was of no use to pretend it wasn't there. He would
give way; but with a gesture. The gesture would be that it was not worth
while bothering about so small an affair, which could best be expressed
in a few lines. Edmund was not to suppose that he had given him
annoyance; the annoyance was past--or nearly so. He clung to the idea of
terseness, but lest it should be misunderstood, the atmosphere of
friendliness might perhaps best be indicated by something more intimate
coming before it.

So he added a paragraph or two about the visit to Wellsbury, the
magnificence of the house, and the illustriousness of the party gathered
there. There was something also about Lord Chippenham in his private
relations. "I had worked with him for nearly four years," he wrote,
"without really knowing him intimately. He is extraordinary in the way
he keeps his public and private lives apart, and one feels it an honour,
even after all this time, to have been accepted on terms of personal
friendship with him."

The kernel of the letter immediately followed.

"I am sorry that I inadvertently went against your wishes in the matter
of Barton's Close. I didn't understand you actually withheld your
consent to the garden-making, or of course I should not have set it in
hand. I have wired to Coombe to stop the work."

That was terse enough. The only thing was that it might settle it too
completely. He didn't want to give up his garden if it could be avoided.
Edmund ought not to be discouraged from asking that the work should go
on, though he would not write anything to show that that was in his
mind. He went on:

"I was rather keen on this addition to the garden, and think it would
have improved the property, if anything. But where Hayslope is
concerned, my chief desire is to work in with your ideas, even where
they differ from mine."

Would Edmund recognize this note of large generosity? It was to be hoped
so--and give way.

He read his brother's letter again, and asked himself whether it was
possible to ignore the rudeness of it. After careful consideration he
added another paragraph.

"I think, my dear Edmund, that your general charge against me of
overriding your wishes and belittling your position at Hayslope can
hardly be seriously made. Such an attitude would be very far from my
intentions, and I cannot charge my memory with any single instance of my
having done so. If I have given you any cause for such an accusation, as
I suppose I must have done, or you would not have brought it against me,
it can only have been because I have been so occupied with affairs
outside Hayslope that I have perhaps treated Hayslope itself as of less
importance than it naturally is to you. If so, I apologize. Hayslope
still holds the warmest corner in my heart of any place in England, or
out of it for that matter. But the world is a large place, and when one
is taking a part, however modest, in dealing with the difficulties that
it is now involved in, the affairs of one small corner of it do not bulk
so large as if one could give all one's attention to them."

He ended resolutely. The intended terseness had already been somewhat
whittled away, and it was not his idea to read Edmund a lecture, or he
might have read him a much longer one. This would suffice. In the future
he might be more closely devoted to the task of putting the world
straight again than he was now, and Hayslope would be of still less
importance to him. If Edmund had his dignity as Squire of Hayslope so
much at heart, it must strike even him that the dignity of a probable
Cabinet Minister--so far had Sir William's aspiring thoughts led him in
the last few hours--was considerably above it. On reading his letter, he
thought that it might have been better to close with the sentence
ending, "my having done so," and omit that beginning, "If I have given
you any cause." But that would have involved rewriting four whole
pages, and the _coda_ was really only a slight fault in the technique of
his protest, and not in its intention. So he left the letter as it was,
and presently posted it himself.

Lady Eldridge also addressed a letter to Hayslope that afternoon, to her
sister-in-law. She usually wrote to her once in the week, and knew that
she would want to hear all about the visit to Wellsbury. But she did not
begin with that.

      "Dearest Cynthia:--I am sorry that Edmund is annoyed about the
      garden. I am sure _you_ know that neither William nor I would want
      to do anything at the Grange that he objected to, but I can't help
      thinking that his putting a veto on it is rather unreasonable.
      William has telegraphed for the work to be stopped, but I do hope
      that Edmund doesn't really mean that the garden is not to be made.
      It would be such a disappointment, for you know what fun we have
      had in working it all out. William does love Hayslope, and all
      that he has done at the Grange. Perhaps in the future he may have
      more work to do, and Hayslope will be more of a recreation to him
      than ever. So try to get it put right if you can. William thinks
      so much of Edmund, and I'm sure Edmund does of William too. He
      can't really want to put such a slight on him as this would be. I
      think William has shown, by wiring at once for the work to be
      stopped, that he doesn't want to go against Edmund. I'm not sure,
      from his letter, that Edmund will even have expected that. If not,
      do get him to withdraw. I can write this plainly to you, though
      perhaps William couldn't to Edmund, after his letter. Men are more
      unreasonable than we are, though they prefer to call it logical.
      But we can't helping loving them all the same--those that we _do_
      love."

Then she went on to tell all about Wellsbury, and gave an amusing
account of their visit, full of light descriptive detail of the men and
women they had met there, with some descriptions from the inside of a
house that was famous throughout the world. But she wrote nothing of
what had been said to her about her husband, and gave no hint of
anything that might be coming to him.




CHAPTER X

RECONCILIATION


The Earl of Crowborough, though he lived in a Castle, and enjoyed a
rent-roll which provided him with everything that was suitable to his
rank in the way of elaborate living, yet shared many simple tastes with
people of less exalted station. Among them was that of propelling
himself about on a tricycle. He had acquired one of those machines in
their early days of solid rubber tires, before the invention of the
safety bicycle, and ridden it for many years, until it became almost a
curiosity, or what the shops call an "antique." He would probably have
continued to ride it until it could be repaired no longer; but riding
through the village of Pershore one morning he had heard somebody--he
never wished to inquire whom--call out: "Here comes that old fool on his
bone-shaker!" After that he had bought a new tricycle of the latest
pattern and its pneumatic tires and easy running had given him a new
delight in his chosen form of exercise and locomotion; so that he could
hardly be persuaded to drive in a motor-car or behind horses when he was
in the country, and would have ridden his tricycle in London if he had
not shrunk from the comments that might reach his ears.

It was on his tricycle that he rode over to Hayslope one afternoon to
look up his old friend, Colonel Eldridge. He did want this
unpleasantness between them ended, and though he believed that he had
been the chiefly injured party, his kindness of heart prompted him to
have done with it all and forget it. He was a creature of habit, and
Hayslope and the people who lived there had come into his life in the
country ever since his childhood. At the height of the recent
disturbances he had never got rid of the feeling of discomfort when
custom had suggested to him that he should ride over to Hayslope, as he
had so often been wont to do, and he had realized that the familiar road
was closed to him. He had continued to visit the Grange, but it was not
the same thing. The Grange was new, at least in its present aspect; the
Hall was the same as he had always known it--a nice comfortable place
full of old memories which kept alive old friendships. There was no
other house within reach of his that he liked so much. And though he
liked William Eldridge, it was Edmund towards whom his deeper feelings
went out. They had been friends for nearly fifty years. Lord Crowborough
did not possess many intimate friends, and there was no special
community of taste between him and Colonel Eldridge, or even of
interest, outside their common interests as neighbouring landowners. But
a tie had grown up between them. Edmund Eldridge did not make the
demands upon his substantial but slow moving intellect that William did;
they were always at ease together.

He could not do without his old friend. Speculation was alien to his
habit of mind, but he did sometimes wonder, during the course of their
estrangement, whether the same sense of blankness might not be working
in Edmund as well. At last he decided to go over and see. He made no
plans as to what he should do if he were received coldly, nor did he
intend to make any appeal. He wanted Edmund again, and it was in his
mind, though not consciously defined as an expectation, that Edmund
would be glad to see him.

Behold him, then, laboriously pedalling up the drive to Hayslope Hall on
a warm afternoon, a not undignified figure, though his large form
lurched and swayed as he took the rise, and his chosen form of country
costume was a suit of pepper and salt and a high-crowned felt hat. But
for his coloured tie, he might have been taken for a country parson of
the older school, and he would not have been displeased at the
comparison, for he was a pillar of the church on its official side, and
had a greater regard for its religious significance than many of its
supporters in that aspect.

Life was pursuing its ordinary course at Hayslope Hall on a summer
afternoon. In these leaner times lawn tennis was apt to be the chief of
its recreations, and the excuse for the gathering together of
neighbours. There were several of them in the garden as Lord Crowborough
was convoyed across the lawn, mopping his super-heated brow, and wishing
that his first appearance were a little less public. Colonel Eldridge
was playing; but he left off immediately, and after greeting his old
friend called to somebody else to take his place in the game, though
Lord Crowborough begged him to continue it.

Colonel Eldridge was not a man to show his emotions except occasionally
that of annoyance, but they were strong within him as his eyes fell upon
the familiar figure advancing towards him, and would have made it
impossible for him to continue the game, though he was in the middle of
his service.

He had never realized until that moment--perhaps he had forbidden
himself the realization--how warm a corner there was in his heart for
this tall, bulky figure, and how empty that place had been of late. The
last vestiges of resentment against him melted away completely. He was
as glad to see him as he had ever been to see anybody.

But nothing of this showed in his face, hardly even the pleasure, as he
shook hands with him, and said: "Halloa! Tricycled over? Afraid you've
got rather warm."

A little later they were sitting together indoors, in grateful coolness,
and there was a tumbler at Lord Crowborough's elbow, which, however,
contained nothing alcoholic. No word had been said about the late
dispute, but the two men were on their old terms. There was gratitude in
the minds of both of them, but it did not show in their speech, which
was level and unconcerned.

They talked first chiefly about the land, and the difficulties of
landlords, with special reference to Mr. Henry Vincent, and whether he
knew anything about the conditions of landowning at all or was only out
to screw as much as possible out of the unfortunate landlord. The
question admitted of some doubt, and there were instances to be brought
forward in support of either view. The matter that was engaging Colonel
Eldridge's attention at this time, which also affected Lord Crowborough,
was fully discussed, and Sir William's name came up in the course of
discussion.

"I don't think he knows Vincent," said Colonel Eldridge; "but I suppose
it would be easy for him to get an introduction. He has the whole
business at his fingers' ends, and is keen to get it settled on the
lines we've agreed upon."

"William's a very capable fellow," said Lord Crowborough. "If he throws
himself into a question of this sort he's likely to get it put
through--unless he puts their backs up."

"Why should he do that?"

"Well, I've a great admiration for William, and of course it has been a
pleasure to me, knowing him ever since he was a boy, to see him climb up
the ladder; he did extraordinary good work during the war; I've heard
fellows say so. But I've met people who say that--well, that he does put
people's backs up; that he's got a way of pushing his own ideas, and
won't listen to anything against them. _I_ don't say it, mind you."

"I think it's a very unfair accusation." Colonel Eldridge spoke warmly,
and it delighted Lord Crowborough's heart to hear him. He even disposed
himself to increase his indignation, because if they two could dispute
upon a subject, as they always had done, and still remain fast friends,
the larger dispute which had set them at enmity for a time must hold out
no further danger.

"Well, that's what a number of people do say," he said dogmatically.

"Then you ought to contradict it if they say it to you. You know
William."

"Oh, yes; and I like William. Nobody likes William more than I do, but
he does set great store by his own opinion. It's a very good thing, if
you're running a business or whatever it may be. Make up your mind what
you want done and don't listen to the people who want it done
differently. I dare say that's all it really means. Still, that's the
general opinion of William, and there's no good shutting your eyes to
it. Besides, you must have had experience of it yourself. You and
William get on very well here--better than most brothers would, I dare
say--but if William wants his own way I'll bet he takes it."

Lord Crowborough went rather beyond what he had grounds for saying here,
for the sake of keeping up that mood of opposition which under the
circumstances was gratifying to him, and was not prepared to give
chapter and verse for his statement, as he was now requested to do.

"Has anybody told you that? What do you mean by it exactly? Is there any
gossip about any dispute between William and me? It would annoy me very
much if it were so."

"Oh, I don't say that, Edmund. You know best what's passing between you
and William."

Colonel Eldridge jumped to conclusions. "It's damnably annoying how
things get put about, and exaggerated," he said. "William and I are the
best of friends--always have been; but each of us has got his own way
of looking at things and sometimes I don't say we don't have a little
breeze, which makes no difference, or we shouldn't have chosen to live
here close together for so many years."

"That's true enough; though of course it's William who has chosen to
live here, for you can't help yourself."

"That's a foolish way of putting it. If I hadn't let William do what he
liked with the Grange he wouldn't have wanted to live here; there
wouldn't have been a house for him. It hasn't altogether suited me what
he has done there, but I've let him do it because I like having him
there."

"I suppose as he and his boy will come after you it doesn't so much
matter what he does. I must say I shouldn't like, myself, to have a
house of that sort growing up within a stone's throw of my own. I should
think the Grange is as big as this house now, isn't it? And with William
I should never be surprised to see it a good deal bigger. He's a fellow
who likes spending his money and never seems satisfied with what he's
got."

"There's some truth in what you say there, and as a matter of fact
William and I have discussed that very question. He is making an
addition to his garden there at this very minute. I dare say gossip has
got about that I objected. Well, I did tell him that I thought it had
gone quite far enough, and I shouldn't care for any further additions to
be made."

"But you didn't stop him making this one?"

"Of course I didn't. I tell you that we understand one another
thoroughly."

"There you are then. In the long run it comes to this, that he does
exactly what he likes, which is what I said at the beginning. Still,
William's a good fellow, and I know he's devoted to you; I've reason to
know it. I should like to have a brother of that sort myself, but my
brother Alfred has always been a nuisance to me, with his schemes for
making enormous fortunes which never came off. It's different when your
brother has a lot more money than you have. It's a very good thing, with
all the burdens they're heaping on land nowadays, to have money brought
into a property from outside. I suppose William could buy another place
now, if he wanted to. I rather admire him for sticking to Hayslope, and
if it amuses him to spend money on the Grange--well, it's because he
likes it better than any other place."

Colonel Eldridge walked to the lodge gates with Lord Crowborough, who,
mounted on his machine, suited his pace to his. They parted with much
good will on either side, though with no more than a "Good-bye then for
the present" to show it.

As he walked slowly back to the house, his heart was tender within him.
It was almost worth while to have quarrelled with this old friend to
have him back on the old terms again. But quarrelling was never worth
while. He had come rather near to quarrelling with William over that
affair of Barton's Close. He remembered with some compunction that he
had spoken angrily to his wife about it, and had written to William
with more irritation than he now liked to think about; though he had
shown in the latter part of his letter that the strength of his protest
was not meant to go deeper than its expression. William had not yet
answered his letter, as there would have been just time for him to do,
which seemed to show that he had not taken it in offence; and the work
of his garden was still going on. Colonel Eldridge had been inclined to
take exception to that, although he was quite prepared for it to go on.
It would have been better if William had written, saying that he had not
understood his objection as serious, or something of that sort. It gave
some colour to Crowborough's criticism of his way of pushing through his
intentions. But it was true, what Crowborough had also said, that he
loved Hayslope, and preferred to spend his money there rather than to
make another place to his liking. Colonel Eldridge well knew that itch
for improvement, and more improvement, and had acted upon it himself in
the days when there had been money to spare for that sort of thing. He
now thought of his protest as altogether exaggerated, and wished he
hadn't made it. He was even inclined to be interested in the new garden
that William had designed, and thought that he might be able to suggest
some slight improvement in the details of the design when they came
together on it, with the protest put aside and forgotten.

As he walked slowly along on the grass by the drive, with the wide acres
of his park surrounding him, the sheep and cattle feeding peacefully, or
lying in the shade of the trees in which he took pride, he thought of
himself as too apt to get annoyed about trifles.

It had not always been so. He was rigid in the demands he made upon
others, but he thought about them kindly too--even his servants, whom he
treated with old-fashioned stiffness, but whose welfare he would take
pains to promote; much more the members of his family, in whose
happiness his was bound up. He was the head of his house, and that must
be recognized by everybody around him. But his rule was not exercised
for his own exclusive benefit, and it had been his pride not to make it
irksome by indulgence in transitory moods.

He was more at peace with himself at this moment than he had been since
his troubles had come upon him. He saw that the trouble about money had
loomed too large in his mind. There was enough money to have in the
quiet way in which life had been going at Hayslope Hall, now for some
time past. Cynthia was making herself happy in it; the children were
happy. Why shouldn't he be? For the first time he caught a glimpse of a
life lived more closely to the soil than it had come to be lived in such
houses as his before the war. In the time of his great-grandfather,
before a rich marriage had brought more money into the family, when a
London house had been added to the country one, and the country house
keyed up to a more elaborate style, Hayslope had been occupied for by
far the greater part of the year, with a rare visit to London or Bath,
or to the country houses of friends or relations. There were old letters
and diaries in the library which told of the life that had centred at
Hayslope in those days. It was far simpler than the life that he and his
had lived there before the war, but it seemed to have contented those
who lived it.

They saw the seasons in and out, and each had its duties as well as
pleasures. Guests would be entertained for weeks together, and live the
daily life of their hosts; they seemed to see even more of their country
neighbours, who lived in the same way as they did, with their recognized
indoor and outdoor pursuits to fill the days, and their merry-makings in
company, more eagerly looked forward to than the more frequent and
elaborate amusements of to-day. The great charm of those days seemed in
part actually to rest upon the difficulty of communication with the
world outside, which concentrated the sweets of life upon the country
home. And where the home was of the spacious and well-provided kind of
Hayslope Hall, it must have been more cherished than if it were only
resorted to for periods in the year, and even those periods broken up by
frequent departures elsewhere.

Perhaps that old stay-at-home life of the country house would come back
of compulsion, now that so many people were straitened in circumstances.
It would be a good thing in many ways if it did; if the men who owned
the land lived more closely to it, and identified themselves with those
who were bound to it. That was a larger question; but there was no doubt
that it could be made a satisfying life, if the necessary changes were
squarely faced and accepted, and the life was arranged on a new basis.
It came to his mind, with a gratifying sense of discovery, that for him
and his family that basis had already been found. It only remained to
cease always casting back towards what had been before and could now be
no longer. The best part remained, and life for him and his at Hayslope
might be happy as it had ever been.

And the other deeper trouble was clearing too. He was glad that it had
been mentioned between him and his old friend, whom for a time it had
parted. At the last, as they had gone down the drive together, Lord
Crowborough had said to him, quite simply: "We fell out about your poor
boy, Edmund. I don't want to go away and leave him as something that
must never be mentioned between us. It was a sad business, but for him
it was wiped out when he fought well and was killed. He was your only
son, and you've lost him. I've been more lucky in keeping mine."

That had put the finishing touch to their reconciliation. Hugo's lapses
could be forgotten now, as they had been forgiven. They had been bad.
For a long time after his death one trouble after another had come
because of him, one revelation after another had been made. He had kept
them nearly all to himself. Only his brother knew something of them, and
he knew by no means all. His wife knew nothing. But an end seemed to
have come to it at last. The burden on his mind was lifting, though it
still lay heavy upon his purse, and would mean rigid economy for years
to come.

How good William had been about it all! A real consolation and support
in his troubles, and willing, as he was able, to lift even the money
burden of them from him. He blamed himself for having shown the
irritability that had grown upon him, under the stress he had gone
through, towards his brother. It was a poor return for what he had been
so ready to do for him, to make a mountain out of that little molehill
of irritation over Barton's Close. But William would not make too much
of that. Perhaps the very best way to show him that it had been only a
surface irritation, which did not affect the permanent tie of affection
between them, would be to accept the help that he had so freely offered.
Only pride had held him back, and that had prevented him from even
acknowledging the generosity of the offer. He had simply put it aside.
With that burden removed, scarcely any trouble would remain to him at
all. He had already everything that was necessary to his own life for
the remainder of his years. It was only upon Cynthia and the children
that the economies which now had to be practised bore hardly. With this
relief, which it was open to him to take at any time, he could give them
more--if not all that he would have been able to give them but for the
war. And he knew that William would be pleased if he were to go to him
and say that he would accept his help. It would bind them together still
more closely, for it would mean the merging of pride in affection.

He saw it all in that moment of enlightenment and softer feeling, and
lingered on his way back to the house to taste the serener air which his
vision brought him. His well-loved home would be a source of delight to
him once more, and no longer a source of anxiety, if he were to take the
freedom that he could have at any time by a word of surrender. He looked
about him before he entered the house, and the sunshine that steeped the
wide spaces of the park seemed brighter and lovelier than before. There
had lain a veil over the beauties of his home. But it only needed a
gesture of his to have it removed altogether.

The parlour-maid met him as he went into the hall. "Mr. Coombe, Sir
William's gardener, would like to see you, sir."

He went into his business room, where the man was waiting for him.

"I've had this telegram from Sir William, sir."

He handed over the pink sheet, and stood respectfully, cap in hand,
while Colonel Eldridge read it. But his eyes rested upon him with an
expression that had nothing pleasant in it.

"Stop work on new garden at once; pay outside labourers week's wages and
dismiss them."

Colonel Eldridge's eyes, resting upon the paper, remained there longer
than it required to take in its meaning. Coming immediately upon the
thoughts with which his mind had been full, they gave him an unpleasant
shock, the effect of which he could not entirely hide from the man who
had administered it to him.

"There's a mistake," he said shortly. "I never intended that the work
should be stopped."

Coombe did not take this up. "I've come to ask, sir," he said, "if
anything can be done about the men I got in to help with the work. I
had a good deal of difficulty in finding them, and I told them it was
likely to be at least a two months' job. Sir William said I could count
it as that. They're mostly men who've been in the army--unemployed.
There's dissatisfaction among them, and I--"

Colonel Eldridge had allowed him to go on because he wanted time to
collect himself; but he now interrupted brusquely: "There's no need to
make trouble at all. You can tell them there's been a mistake, and they
can go on."

Coombe's eyes dropped. He was a youngish man, with a self-confident air,
but with something secretive in his appearance and demeanour which
seemed to contradict his quiet respectful manner. "I've given them
notice, sir, on that telegram," he said. "I couldn't do anything else."

"You ought to have come and seen me first. It seems to me that you've
been glad of the opportunity to make trouble."

It was a relief to him to speak like this. He disliked the man who stood
before him with his sleek, respectful air, which he suspected to hide
hostility that would show itself in insolence if it dared.

"I didn't come to see you about that, sir. My instructions are plain
enough from that telegram, and I'd only got to carry them out."

"Then why do you come to me at all?"

"Because I thought you might be able to do something to keep these men
from making trouble, sir, as Sir William isn't here. Only two of them
belong to Hayslope--Jackson and Pegg. The others are lodging here. I've
paid them their wages, as instructed, and with no work to do they're
likely to get drinking and--"

"Oh, it's out of consideration for the good behaviour of the village
you've come to me, is it?"

"Yes, sir. And because Sir William isn't here to deal with it."

Colonel Eldridge was getting more and more annoyed with him. But his
training prevented his showing more annoyance with men of this class
than he could make effectual. "Sir William is your master," he said,
"and you are quite right to take your orders from him. But you know
perfectly well that it's for me as a magistrate to deal with anything of
that sort, whether he is here or not."

"Yes, sir, that's why I have come to you. I only meant that as the men
are upset-like at Sir William's turning them off, he might have done
something to quiet them."

There was no offence apparent in this. Colonel Eldridge thought for a
moment. "The best thing to do is to tell them that there has been a
mistake," he said. "They can go back to their work. You can tell them
that on my authority, and I'll make it right with Sir William."

Coombe hesitated, and then came plump out with a refusal. "I can't do
that, sir, without instructions from Sir William himself."

There was a moment's pause. Coombe kept his eyes on the ground, but his
face became a shade paler. Colonel Eldridge looked at him as if he would
have annihilated him, and then turned away, and said quietly: "Very
well, then. You can go."

Coombe threw a glance at him, seemed as if he were going to say
something further, but went out without a word.




CHAPTER XI

A QUESTION OF LABOUR


So that was how William had taken his protest! No word to him, but
this--it seemed like ill-tempered--order to put an end to the work. His
anger was hot against Coombe, whom he accused in his mind of putting him
in a hole for the sake of doing so, and then coming to see how he would
take it. But towards William his feeling was more one of sorrow.

He had been giving him credit for generosity and kindly feeling. Surely
it was unworthy of him to behave in that way, even if he had allowed
himself to be unduly annoyed over the tone of the protest made to him.
What must have been his attitude when he sent that telegram to his
servant, and sent no word to his brother? He must have known that to
dismiss his labourers in that way at a moment's notice would make
trouble--trouble that would affect his brother who was on the spot. Yet
he had left him to find out the high-handed action he had taken for
himself. Why couldn't he have given him an opportunity of withdrawing,
if he really thought that he had vetoed the undertaking, which had been
in hand for a week? He _couldn't_ have thought that; the letter written
to him was not a prohibition.

What was to be done now? If that confounded fellow Coombe had come to
him before dismissing the men, he would have wired to William and put
it all right. Yes, he would have done that, pocketing the hurt to his
dignity; for he did recognize that he had given some cause for offence,
though William had been in the wrong to take it in the way he had.

Was it too late to do it even now? It was he who had induced the word to
be given that had stopped the work, and it was for him to give the word
for it to go on. It was simply Coombe's insolence that had refused to
take it from him. Coombe would find that he had overstepped the bounds;
for he had for the time made it impossible to take the course that his
master must wish to have taken. If matters were to be put right, it
could only be by sending a long telegram to William. He began to
formulate it in his mind. He must say that his letter had not meant that
he wished the work to be stopped; he must make it plain that he wanted
it to go on; he must say that Coombe had already dismissed the outside
labour before telling him of the orders he had received, and had refused
to take orders from him to re-engage the men. It would be best to get
William to wire to Coombe to act upon Colonel Eldridge's authority until
he came to Hayslope himself.

It would be a complete surrender on his part; but he was ready to make
it. The mood in which he had entered the house still influenced him; if
William chose to act in this way towards him, he would not accept it as
an offence without giving him a chance to alter his attitude. They could
have it out together when they met; that would be better than writing
letters, which were apt to be misunderstood.

He had sat down at his writing-table to compose his message, when the
maid came in and said that some men had called to see him. Who were
they? One was Jackson, from the Brookside cottages, and another was
Pegg, from Crouch Lane. There were two more whom she didn't know. She
was told to show them in.

Jackson was an elderly man of good character well known to Colonel
Eldridge, who had employed him himself for some years, until he had been
obliged to reduce his labour bill. Pegg was a younger man, who had
worked on various farms, and since the war, in which he had been
wounded, had never remained long in one place, because his small
pension, and the greatly increased wages for agricultural labour, had
enabled him to indulge his taste for occasional spells of leisure. The
other two men were younger still, and one of them wore a discoloured
khaki tunic. Colonel Eldridge did not know either of them, but a shrewd
glance told him that they were of the agricultural labourer class,
probably smartened up a bit by their military service. They stood before
him, Jackson slightly in advance.

"Well, Jackson! Well, Pegg! Hope your leg hasn't been giving you any
more trouble. Who are these two?"

The man in the khaki tunic answered for himself, smartly. "Thomas Dell,
Colonel, late of Second Battalion Downshire Regiment." The other
followed suit. "Albert Chambers, Colonel, late of Army Service Corps."

He asked them a few questions about themselves. They had served their
country; the soldier in him must pay tribute to that first of all. They
could be seen expanding in modest pride, as they exercised the mode of
address they had learnt in the orderly room, standing before their
officers as they now stood before him. He approved of them. Men who had
served unwillingly in the army and taken their discharge would not have
answered him in that way.

"Well, what is it you want? Jackson!"

"We were took on at Mr. William's, beg your pardon, Sir William's, sir,
and now we're turned off. It don't seem hardly fair, and we thought we'd
come to you about it."

"How were you taken on? By the week?"

"Yes, sir. But--"

"Coombe has just been here, and told me that you've had a week's wages
instead of notice. So there's nothing unfair in it."

"Well, sir, we were told that it would be a two month's job. That's what
Coombe told us."

"Coombe took you on, I suppose; not Sir William?"

"Yes, sir. It was like this--"

"I've just heard all about it from Coombe. There has been a mistake.
When you came in, I was just about to telegraph to Sir William. What
you'd better do is to wait till I get an answer, and I've no doubt that
to-morrow you'll be going on where you left off. You'll have had a day's
holiday at full pay, and you won't have anything to grumble at, eh?"

He said this with a smile. He liked old Jackson, and had often stopped
to have a word with him, when he had been employed on estate work,
mending a fence, clearing a drain, or whatever job it might be that had
to do with the land on which he had worked since boyhood. He was full of
homely wisdom; a true son of the soil, with few desires that were not
connected with it. Such men appeal to the fatherly instinct that is born
in the best type of landowner towards those dependent on him. Their
simplicity must be respected; their reliance upon the justice of their
"betters" must be met by the most careful consideration of their
troubles.

Old Jackson hesitated. "Well, sir," he said, "begging your pardon, we're
not wishful to take on work again under Coombe. Sir William, he'd always
treat us right, same as you would, if he wasn't too occupied to look
after things himself, as I've told these others who've been working
along of us. Pegg'll bear me out there."

Pegg bore him out, with a mumble of acquiescence, and Colonel Eldridge
waited for him to go on.

"Coombe don't come from these parts," said old Jackson, and came to a
stop.

"That's nothing against him, if he acts as he should. What's the
complaint against him?"

But Jackson had come to the end of his powers of expression. He could
only repeat: "He don't come from these parts."

Dell, in the khaki jacket, took up the tale. "He's desirous of making
mischief, sir. We were told, after you came down the other morning, that
there'd be trouble about the work we were doing, and if we were turned
off of a good job we'd better look to you for another one."

Colonel Eldridge had not expected anything of this sort. But he was
sitting in the seat of justice now, and the bearing of such a statement
on himself must wait for consideration until later.

"Who was that said to? Tell me the exact words that were said."

Old Jackson found his tongue again. "That's how it was, sir," he said.
"There was me and Pegg heard it, and Dell, and another who ain't here. I
up and said myself that he'd no call to talk like that of you, and
whatever Mr. William done with his land you'd stand by."

"You were quite right there, of course. Was there anything more said, or
only just that speech?"

"He told me to go on with my work and not sauce him back, or I could lay
down my tools and take myself off. I ain't used to being talked to in
that way, sir; and Coombe don't belong to these parts."

"He told Warner, one of the other men took on, sir, that you didn't like
Sir William having more money nor what you've got--begging your pardon
for reporting his true words--and that if you could stop the work what
we was engaged on, you'd do it."

This was from Chambers, the other ex-soldier, and Dell added: "That's
right, sir. And he said we could see for ourselves that you were looking
ugly about it, and meant mischief."

"That's enough. I don't want to hear any more insolent speeches. If
you've just come to repeat that sort of thing to me, I'd rather you had
let it alone. Jackson and Pegg are my tenants, though neither of them
work for me. I dare say they wouldn't like to stand by and let that go
on without speaking up. But it would have been better to report it to
Sir William, instead of to me. I don't see what it has to do with you
two at all."

They showed some surprise at that, for his anger was plain to see, and
his gaze was directed straight at them. "I've told you," he said to
Jackson, "that I was on the point of wiring to Sir William to ask him to
give instructions to Coombe to proceed with the work. That would have
meant taking you all on again. If you don't want to be taken on, I can't
do anything more for you."

Old Jackson seemed to have nothing further to say, and the two
ex-soldiers were still under the influence of the rebuke administered to
them. It was Pegg who spoke, with a preparatory clearing of the throat.
"Jackson said you was thinking of mending the road through the park,
sir."

"Mending the road!"

"It wants doing," said Jackson, speaking now in quite a different tone,
as an expert, whose word carries weight. "It wants doing bad. Put it off
any longer and 'twill mean laying a new foundation here and there, and
steam-rolling and all, when take it in time and a bit of metal will
serve. There's a hole by the three oaks that never ought to been allowed
to get so. You can maybe patch it up to-day, but I wouldn't answer for
what you could do with it to-morrow. Nothing's been done to the road for
a matter of five years or more."

"You may call it six," said Colonel Eldridge. "It was mended last in the
winter before the war, and it was mostly your doing, Jackson."

"Yes, sir. And there was a tidy bit of metal got out of the lower quarry
what we didn't use all of. You'd only have to break it up and lead it;
and lead some gravel to put on it. 'Tis true that I did say to Pegg and
these two that us four 'ud make a good job of it in four weeks, maybe
five--I wouldn't undertake not to make a tidy job of it in less. Put it
off and it'll take longer."

Colonel Eldridge sat considering, his eyes on the papers in front of
him. "What about the other two who were taken on at the Grange?" he
asked.

"They've gone off, sir," said Dell. "They didn't like the job, and
wouldn't have stayed anyhow."

"They _have_ gone off? They're not hanging about the village?"

"No, sir. They took their money, and went off by train to Southampton
where they belong to the docks."

"Where are you two lodging?"

They told him, and he made no comment, except to say: "If I take you on,
you'll have to work under Jackson, and you'll have to keep quiet in the
village. A glass or two at the inn I don't mind, but we never have any
trouble with drink at Hayslope, and I wouldn't put up with it."

Chambers looked scandalized, and asserted himself to be a teetotaller.
Dell said: "I'm a respectable man, Colonel, and if anybody's been
putting it about that I'm otherwise that man's a liar, begging your
pardon for the language."

"Very well. I accept what you say. I'll take the four of you on from
to-morrow, by the week. What wages were you getting at the Grange?"

They told him, and he said they were too high. "You know that, Jackson.
Wages have gone up enormously. I don't grudge them to men like you, who
do your work as it ought to be done. But I'm not going to pay more than
the current rate. If Coombe took you on at the Grange at the rate you
say, he ought not to have done it."

They expressed themselves in their various ways as satisfied with what
he offered them, and old Jackson said: "Who am I to take my orders from,
sir, now Bridger has gone?"

"You'll take them from me. I'm my own bailiff now. Meet me in half an
hour at the three oaks, and I'll settle with you what's to be done."

He wanted a little time for consideration, and when the men had filed
out of the room and left him alone, he rose and walked up and down, as
his habit was when he had to think anything out.

He wanted to be quite sure that he had done right. The cost of these
repairs would be heavy, but the state of the drive would not admit of
much further delay, as old Jackson had said, unless it were to become
almost impassable here and there, and involve a larger expenditure later
on. He had been ashamed of it only half an hour before, when Lord
Crowborough had turned off on to the grass of the park to escape the
worst place, and shown, by making no comment on it, that he knew why it
had been left as it was. He was rather relieved at having had his hand
forced about it, for it didn't do to shirk making necessary repairs out
of unwillingness to spend money on them at the right time. Only bad
landlords did that, and they suffered for it in the long run. The cost
would be inconvenient at this moment, but it could be met. Jackson would
do the work thoroughly, and he was glad to have the old fellow back in
his employ. It might even be worth while to keep him on, for now that he
had got rid of his bailiff there was nobody to whom he could delegate
any overseeing, and he was more tied than he wanted to be. Pegg was a
bit of a rolling stone, but would keep up to the mark as long as the job
lasted. The other two seemed good sort of men, and would probably do as
well as any.

All that was satisfactory enough; but it wanted thinking about as it
affected his relations with William.

The idea of wiring to him in the terms he had intended must be given up.
That had settled itself, for the extra labour he had employed was no
longer available. Two of the men had gone off, and the other four had
refused to continue with it. That was Coombe's fault, without any
question. He had always suspected that fellow of being a mischief-maker,
and now he stood revealed. The report with which he had come to him had
been immediately proved to be absolutely groundless. Of the men of whom
he had professed to be so suspicious that it was necessary to come and
give a warning--for the good name of the village--two belonged to
it--which he didn't--and were well known, two had already left it, and
from the other two there was nothing to fear. The impudent readiness
with which he had turned the few questions of the other morning into a
mischievous attack showed him for what he was. Colonel Eldridge hardly
felt indignation on account of it. The man had given himself away, and
was as good as done with. Whatever their differences, William would
never keep in his employ a man who had misbehaved in that way.

Coombe was so patently the fount and origin of the break-up that had
come upon William's plans that it was a little difficult to go back to
what had given him his handle. When he turned his mind to it, he
experienced a droop of spirit. It was his protest that had started the
trouble, and he had no inclination to shirk that fact, though it was
also true that if William had not received it in the spirit he had, no
harm would have been done. He had some effort to put himself in
William's place, and did arrive at the conclusion that he had probably
not received his letter until his return from his visit that morning,
and that he _had_ probably written in answer to it, which answer he
would receive the next morning. That softened the effect of his
peremptory order, but by no means justified it; for unless he had
intended to show his annoyance by it, he would surely have sent him a
wire at the same time.

The result of his cogitations was that nothing could be done then to
mend the matter. He must wait to see if there was a letter from William,
and, whether there was or not, it would be better to write no more
letters, but to wait further until William came down on Friday evening,
which he usually did. The garden should be made somehow, with another
than Coombe to direct it. He wanted to see the garden made now, almost
as much as William did.

He went out and made the arrangements with old Jackson, and then again
returned to the house, slowly, and with very different thoughts from
those which had borne him company on the same road an hour before. He
did not want to think any more about the unpleasantness that had come
upon him. No doubt it would work itself out, but he did not feel that he
was free of it yet. And the vision of the larger freedom that had come
to him had faded. He was in no mind now to go to William and ask him for
the money that would settle all his difficulties.

After supper, which had taken the place of dinner at Hayslope Hall on
these long summer evenings, he walked with his wife in the garden, and
told her of what had happened.

She was more disturbed than he had been over William's telegram to
Coombe, and his failure to communicate at the same time with him.
"You're _sure_ you didn't actually forbid him to go on?" she asked.

Yes, he was quite sure; but in answer to a further question he could not
declare with such certainty that he had not written in a way that could
arouse annoyance. "I'm afraid I did express myself rather strongly," he
admitted. "But I always have said straight out what I meant to William,
and he has never taken it like this. Besides, my impression is that I
showed him, in what I wrote afterwards, that I didn't mean it
seriously--or not so seriously as all that. I intended to, anyhow."

"Ah!" she sighed. "You ought to have shown me the letter before you sent
it. I could have told you whether it was right or not. I wonder if
Eleanor saw this telegram before William sent it! I'm sure to hear from
her to-morrow, and I think you are sure to hear from William."

"William ought not to have done it," he said, in a tone of finality. "I
can't think that he would have behaved like this a few years ago."

"Oh, my dear, of course he wouldn't."

"Why do you say that?" he asked in some surprise.

"It's quite plain, isn't it? William was nobody much then, compared to
you. Now he is a notable, and expects to be treated as such."

"He has never shown that he expected us to treat him any differently."

"Oh, as long as we keep our places, and don't presume."

He did not smile at this. "I didn't know you felt like that about him,"
he said. "You don't about Eleanor, do you?"

"No. Eleanor has a more level head. I haven't really much fault to find
with William either. I was only laughing at him. One does laugh at
people who go up in the world, and show themselves so delighted with it,
doesn't one? It's the best way to take them, especially if you're not
going up in the world yourself. Or perhaps it isn't the best way. I'm
not sure. Perhaps it shows you're a little jealous of them. But I'm
certainly not jealous of Eleanor, and I'm sure you're not jealous of
William. Poor William! I'm a little sorry for him."

"Sorry for him!"

"Ye--es. His success hasn't improved him. I don't like him as well as I
did, and of course I'm sorry for the people I don't like, just as I'm
rather inclined to envy the people I do like. I'll tell you what I think
about all this bother. I don't believe William has the slightest
intention of giving up his garden. He'll expect you to be overcome with
remorse at having rebuked him, and beg him to go on. What does it matter
to him, paying six men a week's wages, with no work done for it? Add
there's no hurry, you know. They weren't going to plant in any case
until October. There will be plenty of time to get new men to work at
it, and get it finished in time."

"Do you really think that is what he has in his mind? Something of the
same sort occurred to me, but I don't want to think such a thing."

"Well, dear, you had much better follow your own ideas about it than
mine. You can't expect a woman to take the broad view of something that
touches her that a man can. I dare say you're more likely to be right
about William than I am. You have always treated him with great
forbearance, and until now you have kept good friends with him."

"You do think that--that I've treated him with forbearance?"

She stopped, and with a light laugh, looking up at him, put her hands on
his shoulders. "My dear kind-hearted conscientious old man!" she said.
"I'll tell you what I think. If you don't make a stand now, William will
very soon be everything at Hayslope, and you will be nothing."




CHAPTER XII

NEW IDEAS


Summer rain was falling heavily, and a little party was gathered
together in the schoolroom at Hayslope Hall. This was a large room on
the second floor, with windows looking two ways, one on to the park, two
on to the garden and the woods beyond. There was a glimpse from these
windows, through the trees, of some of the roofs and chimneys of the
Grange on its opposite hill; and across the park the tower of the church
and part of the village could be seen, with a wide stretch of country
beyond, and Pershore Castle some miles away, to give accent to a
characteristic scene of wooded undulating country, not yet tainted with
the blight of industrialism. It was sometimes said that this old
nursery, now the schoolroom, was the nicest room in the house. There
were no such views to be obtained from those of the lower floors, but
the views did not make up the whole of its charm. It had that of all
rooms in an old house that have been devoted to the use of children.
Changes in furniture or decoration come to them slowly. Everything that
they contain has made its indelible impression upon the minds of those
who have occupied them in the most receptive years of their lives, and
are woven into the texture of their memories. They have witnessed the
troubles of childhood; but these fade away and are forgotten, or
remembered only as part of the immensely significant and varied
experiences of that age, merging into the rest and carry no sting. They
do not associate themselves with graver troubles, and to those who came
back to them they seem to be a refuge from all the ills of life, so
innocent are the pursuits with which they are connected, so free are
they from the cares and forebodings associated with other familiar
rooms.

This note of freedom and innocence was grateful to Fred Comfrey, who had
been welcomed to this room by Alice and Isabelle, its present occupants,
Miss Baldwin acquiescing. Fred had "taken notice" of Alice and Isabelle,
for reasons not difficult to gauge. He had never cared much for
children, and one would have said that he had no power to interest or
attract them. But his absence of art probably recommended him to these
two, who would not have liked him so well if he had been either jocular
or condescending with them. He treated them in the same way as he
treated Judith, who was grown up. Judith did not like him, but they did,
and presently began to make use of him.

On this wet Saturday morning, when there were no lessons to be done,
they were engaged in restoring an old toy theatre, which had once
belonged to Hugo. Alice had composed a play, which was to be acted by
figures designed by Isabelle. These had been cut out with a fretsaw, and
coloured; and together they had glued them on to their stands. But the
theatre itself, after having lain hidden for years in a lumber room,
needed more serious repair than came within their scope. Fred was a
godsend in this predicament, and was doing all that was necessary, with
a capable hand. Pamela and the children were helping, arrayed all three
in blue overalls, which as worn by Pamela seemed to Fred to be the most
attractive costume that a girl could wear. Miss Baldwin sat apart, busy
with needlework on her own account. Her presence had no effect upon the
flow of chatter. She hardly came into the children's lives except as a
reminder and concomitant of duty, and they were well accustomed to
ignore her when amusement was on foot. Judith also sat apart, curled up
on the deep shabby old sofa with a book, and oblivious to everything
around her. Her enjoyment probably was enhanced by the sense of being in
company, or she would have betaken herself elsewhere.

Miss Baldwin, however, was far more alive to what was going on than
anybody there could have imagined. Unnoticed, she marked every look and
every word. For romance was going on, here under her very eyes, and she
could fit it all in to her ideas of how a story of romance should run.

There was the sweet young girl brought up in the seclusion of her
country home, untouched as yet by the wand of love; there were two men
eager to break the spell that held her; and one of them was a lord.
Pamela had no idea how much Miss Baldwin, prim and plain and scholastic,
admired her. Judith she had taught for a year, and Judith was just a
schoolgirl to her, like any other, although she was now grown up, and as
beautiful in her way as Pamela. Pamela seemed to her the very type of
well-born maidenhood, beautiful and gay, and kind and gentle in her
speech and in her ways. She could weave stories around her, and longed
for the time when the suitors should come thronging. Upon Norman's first
appearance she had cast him for the part of hero, and well he would have
filled it but for the fact of his cousinhood. He was young and gay and
handsome too, and a soldier. But she soon saw him as taking the place
towards the girls of their brother, who had been killed. He might come
into the story later, but not as a suitor.

Two suitors had now appeared on the field, almost at the same time. It
might have been thought that Miss Baldwin would have favoured the lord,
who, upon his first appearance at Hayslope, had actually ridden over on
a horse, from his battlemented castle--or rather from his father's,
which came to the same thing. But Horsham did not conform to her ideas
of a lord, in spite of the horse and the castle. His looks were not on a
level with Pamela's, and though he had youth on his side, she could not
describe it to herself as gallant youth. He had addressed himself to her
when he had first lunched at Hayslope, and with courtesy; but it had
been to ask her whether she thought Edinburgh or Liverpool had the more
easterly aspect. Suspecting some sort of catch, she had replied coldly
in favour of Edinburgh, and it had appeared that she was wrong. That
didn't matter; but the question seemed unworthy of one of his rank. She
would rather that he had ignored her, as the meek silent drudge, in the
family but not of it, and beneath the notice of such as he. He seemed to
be well-meaning and well-educated--his conversation had been largely
geographical. But Miss Baldwin was not content in a lord with qualities
that would have graced a schoolmaster.

Did she then favour the suit of Fred Comfrey, whose desires lay open to
her? She did. He was a son of the vicarage, who had gone out into the
world at an early age to carve his own way in it; and from what she had
heard, he seemed to some extent already to have carved it. He had given
up everything to fight in the war, had fought like a hero--as far as she
knew--and received honourable wounds, from which he had not yet entirely
recovered. His square ugly face and his broad frame spelt POWER. If he
was not quite the strong silent man--for he talked a good deal, and
rather nervously--he might become so, under trial. He was still young,
though he had done so much. He paid attention to her, and rather
embarrassed her by so doing; for she did not wish to be talked to in
company, having little to say in reply. But his reasons for doing so
were obvious, and she approved of them. If she could have brought
herself to tell him that she saw everything and wished him well, her
tongue might have been unloosed in a way to surprise him. But that, of
course, was impossible, though she sometimes played with the idea of the
unconsidered governess putting everything right by a bashfully whispered
word to the ever-after-grateful hero.

She did more than play with the idea of things going wrong. She expected
and longed for it, but only as a preliminary to their eventually going
right. Nobody but herself seemed yet to have awakened to what was going
on. When they did, who could doubt that it would be the lord who would
be preferred by the parents, and the other who would be sent about his
business--perhaps with contumely? She rather hoped with contumely, for
then he would have an opportunity of showing what stuff he was made of,
and it would be so much more interesting. Oh, if only Pamela could have
her eyes opened before the discovery came! If he had made no impression
on her, she would, of course, accept his dismissal at the hands of her
parents with complete equanimity, and the story would simply fizzle out.

That was why Miss Baldwin watched the pair of them so closely, as with
their heads almost touching they bent over their common task, and the
talk flowed, with never a ripple that she could discern to disturb it,
and give it a deeper meaning. There were signs in _his_ speech and looks
of what she wanted to see, but she had got used to that by this time. It
was like carrying on for too long with a chapter that had already told
its tale. She wanted the next one, in which Pamela was to show the
signs. Sometimes she thought it might be beginning; but it never did.
Pamela had not even seen yet what had become so plain. Her friendliness
could not be misunderstood. There was no hint of self-consciousness in
it; or if Miss Baldwin sometimes thought that she caught a hint of her
awakening, it soon died away again. She was forced to believe that
Pamela was as yet fancy-free.

But here, unexpectedly, was a factor introduced into the story of which
she had lost sight. Sitting at the window, and looking up just at the
right moment, she saw Norman come out into the garden, from the wood
which lay between the Hall and the Grange. He was buttoned up at neck
and sleeves in a rain-coat, and the brim of his soft felt hat was pulled
down over his face. He carried an ash sapling, which he was swishing
about as if he were conducting an orchestra. In imagination he may have
been, for he was a musical enthusiast. He was walking very fast, and
there was something in his appearance that appealed to Miss Baldwin's
imagination, which within its limits had the same artistic enthusiasm as
his. For a moment he presented himself to her as the third suitor, whose
success--after vicissitudes to be undergone--was finally to be hoped
for. But the idea was rejected as soon as formulated. There was no story
in it, for it was difficult to see where the vicissitudes were to come
from. Besides, the cousinship held. She could not see Norman and Pamela
as lovers.

There was material for Miss Baldwin in Norman's first meeting with Fred.
He came into the room with a breezy, high-spirited air, which changed
completely as he caught sight of Fred sitting at the table, intent upon
his task, with Pamela's head very near to his, and Isabelle's still
nearer. Only she saw this; for he had burst into the room unannounced,
and by the time heads were raised his expression had changed again,
though not to that of eager pleasure with which he had entered. He shook
hands with Fred, if not cordially, with no marked hostility, and said a
few words to him before answering the inquiries that were showered upon
him by the others.

No, they had not meant to come down to the Grange this week. His father
had gone to stay with some old duffer who wanted to talk politics with
him. His mother had been going too, but wasn't very fit. He had turned
up the night before in London, and persuaded her to let him motor her
down. He had come to ask if Aunt Cynthia and Pamela would come to
luncheon.

Miss Baldwin's eyes were on the strong silent man-to-be during this
passage. He did not quite fulfil her expectations, for he looked almost
as if he were ashamed at having been caught. This might mean that he
knew he would have to face opposition from Pamela's cousin, which Miss
Baldwin would not have expected him to divine at so early a stage. But
she would have liked him to hold up his head higher, while for the
moment he was apart from the centre of the scene. The silence was there,
but not the strength; he looked merely awkward.

She waited until attention was upon him again. Norman's first look of
dislike had impressed her, and contained promise of drama. It looked as
if these two had crossed each others' path before; but that could hardly
be, for she knew by this time that Fred had been carving his way to
fortune in foreign climes and had not for years visited the home-land.
They had met in boyhood; but any differences of opinion they might have
had then would not have amounted to crossing each other's path. She
came, somewhat reluctantly, to the conclusion that there was nothing
more in it than what she expected; dislike on the part of Pamela's
relations to the idea of her being wooed by the vicar's self-made son,
when once they woke up to the possibility of such a thing. Norman had
apparently woke up to it instantly. Of that she gained assurance, as he
talked to Fred about his experiences in the war, and other matters, in a
way unlike his usual open sociable manner of speech, which showed
plainly, to her at least, that dislike was behind it all. It seemed to
her that Pamela was aware of the hostility, and deprecated it. She
helped Fred, and pointed for him the modesty of some of his replies. She
even seemed to suggest that he should be included in the invitation to
luncheon; but Norman did not respond to the suggestion, and when she
went off to find her mother he went with her, as if he did not want to
be left with Fred; and when he said good-bye to him he made no proposal
of their meeting again. His attitude, indeed, was so significant that
even the children noticed it. For Alice said: "Norman seems to have
something on his mind. I don't think he's liking us as much as usual."
And Isabelle added: "Perhaps he's in love. It takes them like that,
doesn't it, Miss Baldwin?"

Miss Baldwin made a suitable reply, to the effect that Isabelle should
go on with what she was doing, and not ask silly questions. The
children, of course, knew of her taste for fiction, but were not enough
interested in her to make it the subject of more than an occasional
allusion of this sort, with which she could cope by assuming her rôle of
instructress. Fred took his departure soon afterwards. Perhaps he had
some hope of coming across Pamela in another part of the house. Perhaps
he was too dispirited to go on with what he was doing with Pamela gone.
There was a marked drop in his air of contentment during the short time
he remained, and he did not respond to the chatter of the children with
his usual complacency. Oh, no doubt the affair was in train of
development now, and a new chapter might fairly be said to have begun.

It was not until after luncheon that Norman and Pamela were alone
together. Rain was still falling, and they went into the billiard-room,
but did not immediately begin the game which they usually played on such
occasions. Norman had recovered his spirits, never for very long
obscured, but his first words, as he shut the door behind him, were: "I
say, old girl, it was rather a shock to find that fellow making himself
at home with you this morning. I don't think you ought to accept him
into the bosom of the family in that way. Really, he's a most awful
outsider."

Perhaps Pamela had been giving the subject some consideration, in
preparation for some such attack. She affected no surprise at it, but
said: "I know you don't like him. I'm not particularly anxious that you
should, or I might have been annoyed at the way you treated him this
morning. But do leave us alone about him. We're going to be nice to him
as long as he stays here. Father and mother want us to, for one thing.
Anyhow, it's nothing to do with you. Now tell me about Margaret."

"Oh, I'll tell you all about Margaret when the time comes. It's partly
what I came down for. But, Pam dear, do take a word of warning about
that fellow. It's easy enough to see that he's trying to worm himself
in. It isn't exactly his technique, you know, to play the kind elder to
children. Of course it's you he's after. Excuse my speaking plainly, but
I do know about these things. It's calculated to make one sick--the idea
of a creature like that making up to you."

She replied, with slightly heightened colour, but in the same level
kindly tone: "It's awfully sweet of you to be so careful about me,
Norman dear; but your vivid imagination is running away with you.
There's nothing of that sort going on, and if there were I could deal
with it perfectly well myself."

"No, you couldn't," he said firmly. "You think you know a lot, but you
know very little. You don't know anything at all about a man of that
sort, thank goodness! Of course I know that you're ratty at my talking
about it at all, although you pretend not to be. So I won't go on. I've
given you my warning, and if you're wise you'll pay attention to it."

"It's very sweet of you, as I said before; and I'm not in the least
ratty. And if I don't know something about all that sort of thing by
this time, I ought to, for you never talk about anything else. Now talk
about it in connection with Margaret."

"Ah! You _are_ ratty. But you can't make _me_. If my wisdom and
self-control weren't equal to my perceptions, supported by a life-time
experience, I should reiterate my warnings. As it is, I stop short--like
that!"

He gave a snap of his fingers, and stood staring at her, his hand
lifted, until she was obliged to laugh. "You're a donkey," she said.
"Now tell me about Margaret."

"Ah! Margaret!" he said. "You observe that I speak with a lingering
intonation, Pam. It represents the tender emotion which stirs my bosom
whenever I utter that sweet name. But unfortunately, I haven't seen her
again; I have only been feeding on her memory--her sweet and ducal
memory."

"Oh, then that means that you have seen somebody else. I did think that
it meant something at last--not a great deal, but still something. Who
has cut her out?"

"Pam dear, how crude you are! I should say coarse if it were anyone
else. Cut her out! As if anybody could cut her out! No, she remains the
one and only. Margaret! Her very name is music. But I told you, didn't
I, that her father was a Duke?"

"Oh, yes, you told me that. It is one of the few things I know about
her--and that she's a sort of highbrow, though not devoid of good
looks."

"A highbrow! Sometimes I think you've no soul, Pam. Margaret is _not_ a
highbrow, any more than you are. But she is the daughter of a Duke; and
it has occurred to me that in pursuing the daughter of a Duke I may be
laying myself open to misconceptions."

"Yes, I see. But I wish you'd come to the point and tell me who the
other girl is."

They had been standing by the window. Norman turned away, and said in a
different voice: "Let's sit down. I want to tell you something."

They sat on a sofa by the fireplace. Norman lit a pipe. "I say, Pam," he
said, "did you ever think of Dad as a sort of millionaire?"

"What a funny question! What is a _sort_ of millionaire? I suppose I've
always known that he has plenty of money. What is the bearing of the
question?"

"You know I've been having a week's sail on the Broads, with a couple of
pals. We've had a topping time. I'll tell you about it later on. One of
the fellows was Dick Baskerville, a son of Lord Ledbury, who's Minister
for something or other--I've forgotten what--and the other was Eric
Blundell, one of those blokes who seems to know everybody and everything
that's going on. They were both at Eton with me, and both in the
regiment. Dick's in it still, and Eric's at Cambridge. We'd always
chaffed each other about our respective anginas, and...."

"What do you mean--anginas?"

"Heart troubles. Both of them had tumbled to Margaret, and brought her
up against me. I didn't deny the soft impeachers; in fact I was rather
pleased at it. When your time comes, you'll see how that works out. But
by and by they began to talk about it as if it were something quite
serious."

"Sweet youths!" interpolated Pam.

"Oh, there was nothing wrong with them. I mean that they began to talk
about marriage, and the right sort of match, and all that sort of
thing."

"I should have thought you'd have been rather pleased with that."

"Why? Because she's the daughter of a Duke? I shouldn't have thought
_you_ would have taken that line."

He looked pained. "I don't, really," said Pam soothingly. "Did they?"

"Oh, not in any way that you could object to. I mean they wouldn't have
thought I was making up to her because of that. But--well, the long and
the short of it is that I seemed to present myself to their minds as the
son of a man who's so rich that I can afford to make up to anybody.
That's what's disturbing me."

She bent her mind to it. "Really, I don't quite see," she said, with
sympathy. "If it does come to that--that you want to marry her--wouldn't
it make it easier?"

"I suppose I should be glad that money didn't stand in the way. But I
don't quite like it, all the same. Dad seems to be quite well known, as
a man who has made pots of money, and may be made a peer himself, or
anything he likes--not because of his money--I don't mean that
exactly--but because he has made himself so useful to them. What I
didn't like was the sort of suggestion that he made a pot during the
war. I know he didn't, and I told them so. Of course they said that they
had never imagined anything of that kind--seemed shocked at the very
idea. But I'm pretty certain that the idea is going about, and I don't
like it a bit. Anyhow, _I'm_ not going to exhibit myself as a joyous
young bounder who thinks he can do anything he likes because he's the
son of a rich man. I don't believe Dad _is_ as rich as all that, and I
told them so. I said I supposed they were leading up to asking me to
back bills for them. We left it on that note. But it's rather
disturbing, isn't it?"

"Not very, Norman dear. I shouldn't let it worry you. _I_ know perfectly
well that you'd be just the same if Uncle Bill were as poor as a church
mouse; and everybody would be just as pleased to see you."

"Dear old girl! _You_ know that I shouldn't found myself on money; but
everybody doesn't. I shall have to be a bit careful, if it's really like
that. I think I shall put it to Dad myself. He's not like that, either.
He likes work, and he's made a big success of it because he's so clever,
and sound. It's hard luck if people have got hold of a wrong idea of
him."

"You're always telling me that I know nothing; but I do know as much as
that--that rich people are apt to be misunderstood. Still, _we_ know
him, so what does it matter? What is the bearing of it all upon
Margaret?"

"The bearing of it on Margaret--name that melts my very
heart-strings--is that I shall go slow for a time, and see how things
turn out. If she weren't a Duke's daughter, I should let myself rip. As
it is, I'm not so sure."




CHAPTER XIII

DISCUSSION


Lady Eldridge was as direct in her speech and her ways as any woman
could be. Yet it did not seem possible to her to embark directly upon
the subject of which her mind was full, when Norman and Pamela had gone
off, and she and her sister-in-law were left alone together. Clothes
were the topic which Mrs. Eldridge seemed eager to discuss, and as if it
were the one upon which she had only been waiting to unburden herself.
Lady Eldridge allowed herself to drift with the stream, until some
landing-place should appear upon which she could set her foot. She was
used to humouring Cynthia in this way, who was not easily diverted from
any subject in which she was interested, though she would pursue it with
many amusing twists and turns, and never made her longest speeches
tiresome to listen to. She seemed to be full of spirit this afternoon,
and made Lady Eldridge laugh more than once, though she was increasingly
anxious to come to terms with her upon the question which must surely be
disturbing them both equally.

For nothing had been heard from Hayslope in answer to William's letter.
Coombe had written to say that he had paid off the labour, according to
instructions, and that was all. She had summoned him that morning on her
arrival at the Grange, about plants and flowers for the house, and he
had volunteered the information that most of the men who had been
working at the garden had been taken on by Colonel Eldridge. This had
given her an unpleasant shock, but she had made no comment upon it to
him, nor encouraged him to any further disclosures. She had divined from
his manner that he was hostile to her brother-in-law, and did not want
to hear about what had been happening from him first; nor to let him see
that she knew nothing.

At last she found an opening. "Cynthia dear," she said, "I must talk to
you about the garden. You must remember that I know nothing yet of what
has happened since William wrote."

Mrs. Eldridge did not lay aside the light manner in which she had been
carrying on the conversation. "Well, dear," she said, "if you must talk
about it I suppose you must. But it's such a tiresome business
altogether that I should have thought it would have been better to leave
it to the two men. If they are going to fall out about such a thing, I'm
sure you and I needn't; and of course they will come together again."

Lady Eldridge thought for a moment. "Of _course_ you and I shan't fall
out about it," she said with decision. "But it must have gone a good
deal farther than it ought to have done for you to think of such a
thing. Why didn't Edmund answer William's letter?"

"Well, there's no difficulty in answering that. His first letter to
William seemed to have been so misunderstood that he thought it better
not to write any more, but to wait till he came down. Of course he
didn't know that he wasn't coming down this week, or perhaps he _would_
have written. I think he was quite right, you know. I advised him
myself, when he wrote first of all, not to show irritation. I'm afraid
the poor old darling must have done so, and unfortunately he didn't show
me what he had written before he sent it. Oh, I think it's so much
better _not_ to write letters which may be misunderstood. I didn't
answer yours for the same reason, though I know _you_ wouldn't
misunderstand. Well, perhaps that wasn't _quite_ the reason. I didn't
want to mix myself up in it."

Lady Eldridge's spirits had lightened during the course of this speech.
"I'm so glad it was like that," she said. "I thought it must have been
something of the sort. But do you mean that Edmund didn't want William
to give up making the garden?"

"Of course he didn't. He only thought he ought to have been consulted
first. I'm bound to say I thought he had been, and I told him so. I was
as much in it as you were, in a sort of way. I was interested in the
scheme, as you know. _I_ certainly didn't want it given up, and I was
disappointed when William threw it all over."

"But--Edmund did object, you know; and pretty strongly. I saw his
letter. William felt that he couldn't go on, in the face of that."

"Ye--es. But Edmund would have told him that he hadn't meant him to
stop, if he had been given the chance. Men do act hastily when they are
a little upset with one another; but it was a pity that William took up
the attitude he did, I think. With just a _little_ consideration for
Edmund's feelings the trouble would have blown over entirely. Now I'm
afraid there is quite a lot to put straight, and it has tried Edmund
very much."

"I don't understand it, Cynthia. William wired at once to have the work
stopped, according to what he thought were Edmund's wishes. It was a
good deal to do under the circumstances, and what could he have done
more? Surely, Edmund could easily have put it all straight by firing
back that William had misunderstood him, and then--"

"Wiring back, dear! William didn't wire to Edmund. He took no notice of
Edmund at all. The first Edmund knew was that Coombe came to tell him
that he had dismissed the men. After that what _could_ he do?"

"What he seems to have done was to take the men on himself."

"I'm rather sorry he did do that, because of course he can't afford it,
and it will only add to his worries, poor dear! Still, there they were
dismissed at a moment's notice, in a fit of temper, you might say,
and--"

"Oh, _no_, Cynthia. It wasn't so. You mustn't say that."

"My dear child, we must be reasonable on both sides if we are to talk it
over at all. I've admitted quite frankly on my part that Edmund was
hasty in what he first wrote to William, and you ought to admit on yours
that William acted in the same way."

"But, Cynthia dear, I _know_. William _was_ annoyed, but after he had
talked it all over he got rid of his annoyance. I _know_ that it had
passed when he wrote."

"Very well, then. But if that is so you must admit that he took an
unfortunate way of showing it. To dismiss the men off-hand by wire, to
let Edmund hear of it first from Coombe, and then--"

"I do admit that that was unfortunate. I'm quite sure that it never
occurred to him--it didn't to me--that it would look as if--"

"And then his letter the next morning! That put Edmund's back up more
than anything."

Lady Eldridge threw out her hands in a gesture of despair. "Oh, I give
it up," she said. "Everything seems to have been taken in the wrong way.
I did think that two brothers who have been so much to each other as
Edmund and William ought to be able to settle an absurd dispute of this
sort without all this misunderstanding."

"That's exactly what I think. And if you and I are to mix ourselves up
in it at all, we ought to try to clear up the misunderstandings."

"Yes, I want to do that. Tell me _why_ William's letter should have put
Edmund's back up more than anything."

"It's rather difficult, you see. You mustn't be impatient with me. You
know that I am very fond of William, but you can't expect me to see him
in quite the same light as you do, any more than you can see Edmund in
the same light as I do. And you must remember that I'm trying to make
peace all the time. Still, I see things with Edmund's eyes to some
extent, and after what had happened the day before I don't think it was
unreasonable of him to object to being told in so many words that
William couldn't be expected to take seriously things that _he_ thought
so important, especially Hayslope, which was only a very small corner of
the world."

"Oh, Cynthia, what an absurd coil it all is! William _can't_ have
written that. I know the mood he was in when he went away to write."

"Well, dear, he did write it, and you must forgive me for saying that
that attitude in him is continually coming out. This bother about the
garden is only a symptom of it. It is the attitude itself that so annoys
Edmund. I know that William is much higher up in the world now than my
poor old man. But he ought not to want to rub it in, Eleanor. After all,
Edmund _is_ the older brother, and the head of the family. You can't
defend William telling _him_ that Hayslope is of very little importance.
It's all he has in the world. Poor dear, he did his duty as a soldier
during the war. I'm not saying he did _more_ than William; but just look
at the difference in the rewards they have got! Edmund will be a poor
man for the rest of his life, because of the war, while William is rich
and honoured."

"He isn't rich _because_ of the war."

"Oh, no! I don't mean that at all. I should never say such a thing, or
think it. And as for his knighthood, one knows that honours are given to
the men who do the sort of work that he did, while a soldier's work is
just taken as a matter of course. _You_ know that it would never occur
to me to feel jealousy on that score, which is why I can put it quite
plainly. Edmund doesn't feel it either, and he is proud of William's
success; he has often said so. But still, _here_, Edmund ought not to be
considered of less account than William. There! I have said it quite
plainly, and you mustn't be offended."

"No, I'm not offended; though it makes me rather sad that all that
should have to be said, because it is practically the same as William
says himself, and tries to act upon. He did so in this very matter of
the garden; but see how it has turned out! Edmund takes it as an offence
that he should instantly have carried out what he thought were his
wishes."

"But did he really mean to give up the garden, Eleanor? I will tell you
frankly now, as we have gone so far, that Edmund's idea is that he hoped
he would beg him not to. _You_ wrote to me, you know, asking me to
influence Edmund to do that."

"Not quite, Cynthia. At least--well--"

"You did, dear; and I should have tried to make the peace in that way,
if it hadn't gone so far. I'm afraid you must admit that William acted
hastily--I don't say more than that--and if he _did_ expect Edmund to
climb down, as Edmund believes--well, that's just exactly the spirit
that I've been trying to point out to you is so objectionable to
Edmund."

"Oh, it's all so different, Cynthia, from what happened on our side.
Climb down! There was no such idea in William's mind. _Can't_ we get it
straight? Supposing William apologizes to Edmund for anything that may
have displeased him! I believe he would be ready to do that. And you
mustn't forget Edmund's first letter to him, which you have acknowledged
yourself--and I saw--was very dictatorial, and even offensive, though
perhaps it was not meant to be so."

"Offensive! No, I shouldn't quite admit that."

"You say you didn't see it, dear. Among other things, he accused William
of vulgarity."

"Vulgarity!" Mrs. Eldridge showed some surprise. "Well, of course that
would be rather strong. But--"

"William is careless about Edmund's position here, you say. Very well.
He doesn't mean to be, and perhaps Edmund doesn't mean to be
dictatorial. But he is, you know, towards William; and considering the
high estimation in which William is held, and the kind of people he
mixes with, upon equal terms, it _is_ sometimes rather difficult to put
up with."

"Isn't all that rather apt to be pressed home upon us, dear? Not by
you--I don't mean that. Naturally you are proud of the estimation in
which William is held. I should be myself if I were in your place. But
Edmund feels, I think, that he might be spared some of William's
reminders on that point. In the very letter he wrote about the garden,
in which he said that Hayslope couldn't be expected to be of such
importance to him as it was to Edmund, he prepared the way by telling
him of all the great people he was consorting with--as you say, upon
equal terms."

"Which is exactly what I did, when I wrote to you after we had come back
from Wellsbury. We _were_ there on equal terms, you know; we didn't dine
in the servants' hall."

"Oh, my dear, you mustn't take it in that way, or we may as well leave
off talking about it altogether. _I_ didn't show annoyance when you
accused Edmund just now of being dictatorial and offensive. Don't let
_us_ fall out with one another, or _every_thing is lost."

Lady Eldridge sat more erect in her chair. "We _must_ end it all," she
said. "Neither you nor I want it to go on. Let us leave off finding
faults in the other side, and admit that both sides have made mistakes.
It _was_ unfortunate that William should have wired to Coombe, and sent
no message to Edmund at the same time. It's easy enough to see that now;
but at the time it didn't occur to me, who was very anxious that offence
should not be given, and I'm sure it didn't occur to William. I have
told you, anyhow, that his resentment over Edmund's letter had passed
over; so _that_ can be cleared out of the way. Edmund need think no more
about it. Now let us get William's mistake cleared out of the way. Tell
Edmund that it was only carelessness on William's part that led to this
new trouble, that _I_ much regret it, now it has been pointed out to me,
and that I'm sure William will when he knows the effect it had. Will you
do that, Cynthia?"

"Yes, dear, of course I will. Don't let us have any more letters. Let us
wait until you come down again next week, and then Edmund and William
can talk it all over together, and I'm sure at the end of it they will
be as good friends as before."

Lady Eldridge breathed an audible sigh of relief, and smiled. "_We_ have
talked pretty plainly to one another," she said. "I am so glad that we
can. What a lot of trouble that unfortunate garden plan of ours has
made! And it looked as if we were all going to amuse ourselves so much
with it."

"Oh, and I hope we shall. Do you know, I think Edmund is as much
disappointed at the idea of its being given up as anybody. I haven't
told you yet--we seem to have been talking about all sorts of outside
things--that he _was_ going to send a long telegram to William asking
him to go on with it, even _after_ Coombe had come to him and refused to
take his orders."

Lady Eldridge seemed quite at a loss. She stared at her and said
quietly: "No, you never told me that. I didn't know that Coombe had been
to Edmund at all."

"How did you think he knew, then, that the men had been paid off? You
haven't done my poor old Edmund quite justice, you know, Eleanor--but I
don't want to begin on that again. He was naturally upset at hearing of
it first from Coombe, and _yet_ he was going to wire to William. In
fact, he was going to climb down."

Lady Eldridge passed this by with a slight contraction of the brows.
"What prevented him from writing?" she asked.

"Oh, I haven't told you that. The labourers who had been dismissed came
to him, and said they wouldn't go on working under Coombe. I'm afraid
William will have to get rid of that man, Eleanor. The way he has
behaved is perfectly outrageous. In fact, but for him, the garden might
have been half finished by this time."

There was a moment's pause. Then Lady Eldridge said: "This is something
quite new again. You must tell me everything, please, Cynthia."

"I don't know that there's much more to tell, dear. Coombe quite
obviously came to Edmund to crow over him, though of course he
_pretended_ to be respectful. But when Edmund told him that there had
been a mistake and that the work was to go on, he said he had had his
orders and must abide by them. So what else could he have come for?"

"What did he say he had come for? I'm not defending him, but this is
serious. I want to know exactly what happened."

"Oh, he pretended that the men who had been dismissed might make a
disturbance in the village. So ridiculous! Two of them are Edmund's own
tenants, and the other two are most respectable men, and one of them is
a teetotaller. Edmund says he has seldom had work better done than they
are doing it now."

"I wish William were here. Coombe has never given us any cause for
dissatisfaction, and this is quite a new light on him."

"And afterwards it came out that he had spoken in the most impertinent
way about Edmund to these very men; so much so, that old Jackson
wouldn't put up with it, and _all_ of them would have refused to go on
working under him if he _had_ been told to go on--by William, I mean,
for he had been told to go on by Edmund and had refused to do so. The
fact is, I suppose he had got into a mess with his men, and thought he
could shift the blame on to Edmund. You see, dear,--take it all
round--it was really impossible that the work should be taken up again.
Still, I quite hope that it may be, later, and be finished in time for
the autumn planting. There isn't any violent hurry, is there?"

"No. But whether the garden is made or not seems so unimportant now in
the face of all these complications. I think I won't say anything to
Coombe myself, but will wait until William comes down. What was it
actually that he said to the men about Edmund?"

"Oh, it was outrageous; but it shows the sort of feeling that has grown
up with regard to Edmund and William. He told them that Edmund was
desperately jealous of William on account of his title and his money,
and that if this work they were doing was stopped they would have him to
thank for it, for he hated William doing anything at Hayslope. Then of
course he had been paying them more than the current rate of wages--I
suppose William didn't know that--which made it difficult for Edmund
when it came to employing them himself. But there they are, working for
us at less than they were paid here, and refusing to go on under Coombe
at the higher rate. So you see that Edmund _is_ still respected by the
villagers and work-people, in spite of all the difficulties that have
been made."

Lady Eldridge arose somewhat abruptly. "We seem to have got back to
general criticism," she said, "which I thought we had put behind us. I
am not going on with that, Cynthia. I think we had better leave it alone
altogether until William comes down. See, the rain has stopped. Let us
go out."




CHAPTER XIV

CHURCH AND AFTER


There was nothing remarkable about Hayslope Church, unless it was its
tower, which was large enough to make it a landmark for miles around,
and its bells, whose full and mellow peal ringing out across the summer
woods and fields, or in winter time over a landscape muffled white in
snow, brought that sense of peaceful festivity which belongs especially
to rural England, so many centuries old. The tower was of perpendicular
architecture, the main body of the church, conceived with less largeness
of aim, of an earlier date. But most of its character had been finally
lost in the restoration to which it had been subjected in the latter
half of the nineteenth century. Colonel Eldridge's grandfather had
supplied the money for this work, as a thank-offering for the safe
return of his son, who had been in the thick of the Indian Mutiny. The
taste, which had seemed to him of the best, had been supplied by one or
other of the ecclesiological malefactors of the time, whose baneful
activities, carried on by their immediate successors, have left scarcely
an old church in all England in which it is possible to feel the quiet
and grateful influences of tradition. There were seats of pitch pine,
varnished, a chancel paved with encaustic tiles, thinly lacquered metal
work of a mean design, and a little triple reredos of oak underneath
the distressing colours of the East window.

And yet it was possible sometimes to catch the sense of the long past,
which the restorers had done their mischievous best to destroy. Lady
Eldridge, somewhat troubled in her mind, and anxious to lay hold of
whatever composing influence the morning service could bring her, looked
here and there during the progress of the sermon, and it came home to
her--that soothing impression of age and use and wont, which is the
rightful heritage of old churches, and especially of old country
churches.

The seats belonging to the Hall and the Grange were in what had once
been the South Chapel, and were slightly raised above the rest. The side
view of the altar, the choir-boys and handful of choirmen, backed by the
garishly patterned organ pipes, held nothing for the eye to rest on with
pleasure. But the high pulpit, of Jacobean oak, from which Mr. Comfrey
was engaged in directing his flock, was consecrated by some centuries of
use to that weekly exercise. Behind him, in a line from where she was
sitting, was a window of little diamond panes of clear glass, through
which the trees could be seen, and the birds flying to and fro. Perhaps
it was this which first brought the sense of peace to her mind; for that
outlook into the happy world of birds and trees had often freed her
thoughts from the slight oppression caused by Mr. Comfrey's dialectics,
which were concerned with nothing that seemed to bear upon the life that
was all about him. But this morning it set her thinking of the past, as
it hung about the familiar church, in which once or twice before she
had caught at the skirts of time, and held them for a little.

Underneath the tower, from the wooden ceiling behind the high-pointed
arch, the stout bell-ropes hung down, thickened with worsted where the
ringers held them. Behind them were the ponderous oak doors, from a
chink between which streamed a thin plate of golden light, that fell
upon the sombre tables of the law, which the renovators had banished
from over the altar; and above the arch was a large square panel painted
with the Royal Coat of Arms. Somehow, the sight of these things, which
had nothing to do with the long-ago history of the church, was grateful
to her. Her imagination, and her knowledge, were equal to reviving some
vision of the church as it had been before the Reformation, when the
same kind of country-folk as now resorted to it fixed their stolid gaze
upon the priest before the altar, and knew him in his outside comings
and goings as the villagers of to-day knew their Mr. Comfrey. But it was
a life nearer to her own, and yet established for some generations past,
of which the voice of the old church whispered to her this morning. By
turning her head to the right she could see a large mural monument of
white marble, filling the space of a blocked-up window, which
commemorated the virtues of an early eighteenth century Eldridge, and
those, less enlarged upon but possibly as exemplary, of his wife. Those
were the times of which she liked to think, and the years that came
after them, when her husband's forbears lived in the Hall, much as it
was now, and came here every Sunday, to take part in the same prayers
and psalms, and to listen, or otherwise, to sermons from the same
pulpit. Some of them had lived through troublous times, but none,
surely, in such a time of unrest as this, with the great catastrophe
only just lifted, and its ultimate results not yet in any power to
foresee. She herself had been less affected by it than many. She had
lost no near relations; she had not to rearrange her life to meet
reduced opportunities. But the weight of it hung over her all the same.
It was a comfort to feel that here was something that went on, that came
from a past not too remote, and was joined to her life by special ties.

In the two seats in front of her sat the family from the Hall. They had
not come unscathed out of the catastrophe. Yet the same sense of
something stable and supporting in this Sunday habit of churchgoing hung
about them. More even than herself they belonged here. Almost more than
the house they inhabited, this place seemed to stand for continuity and
settlement in the lives of such as they. For life in the house must
alter from time to time, and might alter much; but what went on in the
church altered little.

Such a life as theirs seemed to her preferable to her own life, even
with the restrictions that diminished means had brought them. Such
restrictions would not have troubled her for herself, as long as the
quiet round of daily duty and pleasure remained. She would have enjoyed
it more than the life she led, chiefly in London. The days she spent at
the Grange were the best days, but the Grange too seemed to echo the
busy London life, so bound up in all its aspects with the spending of
money. There was some restful feeling about it, surrounded as it was by
the woods and fields, but it was not to compare with the restfulness of
the Hall, which reflected only the life of the country, as it had been
lived there for generations. It seemed to her that if she had been in
Cynthia's place she would have been glad that the London house had had
to be given up, for all her interests then would have been concentrated
upon the house which was really the home. Cynthia did love her country
home, she knew, and had accepted the change in her lot with admirable
absence of complaint. But they were not made alike; Cynthia would have
been completely happy if their positions in life had been changed.

Colonel Eldridge sat upright in his seat, his closely-cropped grey head
held erect, the brown skin of his neck and shaven cheek contrasting with
the clean polished white of his stiff collar, his flat back and square
shoulders clothed in dark creaseless serge. The rigid neatness of his
appearance and attire went with his straight confined mind, in which
there was little room for the leniencies that gave her the sense of
something large and responsive in her husband. Her gaze rested on him,
and she tried to imagine something of what he was thinking, as he sat so
unmoved, his eyes bent down, and his ears, she was sure, not responsive
to Mr. Comfrey's well-intentioned hair-splittings.

It was probably this effort to put herself in his place that brought to
her a rush of pity for him, so strong that moisture came to her eyes,
and she looked away to the ribbons and daisies in Isabelle's hat,
immediately in front of her.

She had been hard to him in her thoughts, although she had worked upon
her husband's more easily moved sensibilities to put aside the offence
he had caused, and to treat him with generosity. She had even felt great
impatience with Cynthia, though she hoped she had refrained from showing
it. It had been difficult, the day before, to treat her with the
customary affection, when they had laid aside their discussion, which
was leading to no understanding, and spent an hour together out of
doors. She believed Cynthia to be as anxious as she was that this
unseemly dispute in which they had found themselves involved should end;
but Cynthia had allowed herself to say many things that she would not
have allowed to be said to her without taking great offence. She had
been right to let them go by, but she was not so sure that she had not
kept a spark of resentment over them alive in her mind. If so, she must
put it out. Cynthia was her friend of many years, and did love her; of
that she was assured. Friends ought to be able to speak plainly to one
another, and if they did not agree upon a given subject, they must fall
back upon the deeper agreement to which their friendship had brought
them, tested by time and welded by affection.

In this dispute there seemed to be nothing that could be done by
discussing the rights and wrongs of it. Discussion seemed only to add
new causes of complaint, which were already so numerous as to be
swamping the original one. But the deeper tie was there, for all of
them. She made up her mind definitely that she, for her part, would lean
all her weight upon it, and not allow herself to be turned aside by any
accidents of the moment. And she knew that William would be ready to act
the large generosity that was his, even to the extent of accepting
blame, where blame was not rightly due to him.

What was it that really lay at the bottom of the feeling that seemed to
be growing up to separate them? Not the question of the garden, which
had been complicated by all sorts of little mistakes, or it would have
been amicably settled long ago. Cynthia had been right when she had said
that that was only a symptom, though she had applied it only to one
side. Edmund complained of William overshadowing him at Hayslope. That
was what it came to in the last resort. Well, William was a man of mark,
and Edmund was not. And it was impossible for William to put the same
value upon what was of most importance to Edmund, which was also a cause
of complaint. Hayslope wasn't and couldn't be always in the forefront of
his mind, with all the varied and thronging interests that were his.
Edmund ought to be able to see that; but if he couldn't, or wouldn't,
then it only remained for William to be more careful than ever not to
upset his dignity, which should not be very difficult for him, with the
affection that he had for Edmund. As for the dictatorial methods that
Edmund was apt to adopt towards his younger brother, perhaps it had been
a mistake to bring them up at all. It would be small-minded to keep them
standing as a subject for resentment, and they meant nothing that
mattered. William had put up with them comfortably for the greater part
of his life, and she was sure he would go on putting up with them for
the sake of keeping the peace.

Without a doubt, when the balance was struck, there had been more
offence against them than against Edmund. Very well, then; it was for
them to make light of it. They could well afford to do so. They had so
much more than Edmund now; they would even stand in Edmund's place some
day, if they survived him, and would have that in addition which he had
hoped to have handed on to his son. Poor Edmund; he had been very much
tried. It would not cost much to give way to him in this affair, and
carefully to avoid all occasions of offence in the future.

The service came to an end, and the congregation streamed out into the
bright sunlight. It was composed of the households from the Hall, the
Grange, and the Vicarage, a few farmers and their families, villagers
and labouring people. It had not filled half the church, for the country
habit of churchgoing is lessening, along with the not so admirable habit
of Sabbatarianism. At Hayslope, perhaps more people went to church than
would be usual in a country village, because the gentry went regularly,
and, although Colonel Eldridge would not have put pressure on any of his
tenantry to follow his example, it was generally supposed that he liked
to see as full a congregation as possible. It was his custom to linger
in the churchyard after the service, to exchange salutations, and for a
few words with one and another. Lady Eldridge, whose eyes and ears were
open towards him, marked his pleasant courteous air with those to whom
he spoke. It was plain that they liked to be singled out by him. He was
an excellent Squire, of a kind that is fast disappearing. There was
nobody there that morning of whom he did not know something more than
their occupations about this estate. He could probably have put a name
to all the children, and they bobbed, and touched their caps to him, not
as if they had merely been taught to do so. It was not, after all, no
small a thing to hold the respect and esteem of some few hundreds of
people towards all of whom, directly or indirectly, he stood in a
special position not invariably easy to maintain. Money could not have
bought just that response; there were many rich landowners, generous
according to their lights, who would not have been liked and respected
in the way this one was, who might now be called poor.

There was a gate leading from the churchyard to the Vicarage garden, but
Fred Comfrey joined himself on to the Eldridges, who crossed the road
and entered the park through the lodge gates, just opposite. He seemed
to Norman, who watched him with an unfavouring eye, to do this with a
hangdog air, as if he knew he was taking a liberty. At any rate, he
should not walk with Pamela, if that was his object. Norman fastened
upon her himself, and said: "Let's get away. I want to talk to you about
something."

"Wait half a minute," she said, her head turned towards the group behind
her; and then she moved towards Fred, and said: "I've found that book at
last. If you'll come up now I'll give it to you."

Fred visibly brightened, before Norman's offended eyes, and seized upon
her invitation as inclusive of her company during the walk home, for he
put himself instantly by her side. She threw a half-glance at Norman,
such as to absolve her in his mind from having intended this; but she
shouldn't have given the bounder the opportunity of joining her in that
way. Of course he would stick like a leech, if he got the smallest
encouragement.

Pamela said to Norman, trying to bring him into a conversation of three:
"Do you remember that book, 'Jack o' the Mill' that Hugo used to be so
fond of when he was a boy? I remember him showing me the pictures in it,
when I was quite tiny. Fred reminded me of it, and I've found it for
him."

"No," said Norman, who remembered the book perfectly well. But "no" was
the shortest word he could find. He wanted to hear Fred talk, and give
himself away.

Fred seemed to be quite ready to talk, and he did not follow Pamela's
lead in trying to bring Norman into the conversation. He talked about
Hugo, in a way that aroused Norman's contemptuous disgust. Really, one
would have thought that the two of them together had been models of
sweet and innocent boyhood, and that the one who was dead lived
enshrined in the heart of the other as a tender memory that would never
fade. Poor little Pam liked it, of course, and there was no objection to
having Hugo turned into a plaster saint for her benefit. But the fellow
was obviously out to recommend himself through this beatification, and
to share the halo. He was trying now to bring Pamela herself into the
picture of the blameless past, representing the three of them as having
taken part in the sacred idyll. This afforded Norman food for sardonic
amusement, remembering as he did how little Pamela had been considered
by the hulking brute that Fred had been then, or even by Hugo, when he
had been in Fred's company. At the third or fourth "Do you remember?" he
could stand it no longer, and turned back to join the children and Miss
Baldwin, who were immediately behind them. This was intended as a
protest, but neither Pamela nor Fred, in the interest of their
conversation, seemed to notice it.

Fred did not stay to luncheon, although Norman heard his aunt invite
him. He went off with his book, and Norman had his opportunity of
talking to Pamela. It had been in his mind to begin upon the subject of
Fred; but it was of no use just to repeat his warning of yesterday, and
anything he might say about the conversation from which he had just
retired in disgust would reflect upon Hugo. Hugo was becoming
increasingly a subject not to be mentioned between him and Pamela.
Besides, he _had_ something he wanted to say to her.

She waited for him to speak first, as they turned towards the lawn, and
possibly expected a rebuke, as before. "I say, Pam," he said. "This is a
rotten business about the new garden."

"What new garden?" she asked in surprise, for her parents were
old-fashioned in respect of not discussing all and everything before
their children, and no echo of what had been disturbing them had reached
her.

He was surprised in his turn. "What, don't you know?" he said. "Father
had begun to make a garden in that field at the bottom of the wood, and
Uncle Edmund stopped it."

Then he gave her the story, as it had been told him by Coombe that
morning, when he had gone down to Barton's Close, and found him in his
Sunday clothes, musing over the havoc he had wrought. The story had lost
nothing in the way of incrimination of Colonel Eldridge, and complete
exculpation of himself.

"I don't believe it," said Pam shortly. "If anything has happened, it
wasn't like that."

"Well, something _has_ happened, because the digging was stopped a week
ago, and the men who were doing it are working at the drive here."

"Yes, Dad did say, now I remember, that he had taken on some men, who
had been working for Uncle Bill. What does Auntie Eleanor say about it?"

"I haven't said anything to her. It seems to me, anyhow, as if our
respective, and respected, parents had fallen out, and I want to know
what line _we_ are going to take about it."

"The line _I_ should take about it, if I had to take any, would be that
if Dad and Uncle Bill disagreed about something, Dad would be in the
right."

"I say, Pam! Are you annoyed about anything?"

"No."

"Well, you're rather terse, aren't you? It's a pity, because you're
looking particularly seraphic this morning. I noticed it first in
church."

"It was very sweet of you; and I believe it to be so. Everything seemed
to go on right this morning. There _are_ days like that. You don't
think that Dad and Uncle Bill have really quarrelled, do you? Of course
I know the garden _was_ to be made, and it seems odd that it should have
been left off like that."

"Yes, it is odd. I don't like to think of their having a row. It would
be very unlike them. Still, according to Coombe--"

"_What_, according to Coombe? If he said what you say he did about Dad,
you ought to have shut him up."

"I did, as a matter of fact. But there must be _something_ in it."

"I think we'd better wait and see what there is. If there's anything at
all, it will blow over. I suppose you can't expect them always to agree
about everything, and Uncle Bill is so much away, and so busy, that he
might not always think enough of Dad's point of view, who is always
here."

"It might be something of that sort. Anyhow, _we_ needn't take sides."

"Oh, _I_ should, if there was really a quarrel. I adore Uncle Bill, but
if it was a question between him and Dad I should take Dad's side
through thick and thin. And I should expect you to take Uncle Bill's. So
I expect we should quarrel worse than they would."

He laughed lightly. "Not much fear of our quarrelling," he said. "I say,
Pam, have you seen Sunny Jim lately? I'm told that he is in residence at
Pershore Castle, the seat of his father, the Earl of Crowborough, and a
dull dog at that."

"Yes, he has been over here once or twice. I should think he might
quite possibly come over this afternoon. Do you want to see him?"

"I don't know that I particularly want to; but I shall, no doubt. How is
his affair progressing?"

"What affair?"

"His suit for the hand of Miss Eldridge, of Hayslope Hall. Is his ardour
still undiminished, and has he had any encouragement yet?"

Pamela laughed. "I'll tell you something, if you'll promise to keep it
to yourself," she said.

Norman promised.

"Well, I don't think he knows it yet, but he is beginning to fall in
love with Judith. She doesn't know it either, of course; but it's the
greatest fun in the world to watch them."

"Tell me about it. I shouldn't mind that at all. As a matter of fact, I
think Jim ought to be kept in the family, dull as he is. As long as it
isn't you!"

"Judith doesn't find him dull. And you make a great deal too much of his
dulness. He isn't interested in the things that we like; but he does
know a lot, and I should think he was very sound in what he does know."

"Let's hope he is. Oh, he's not a bad fellow, I like old Jim; and people
liked him at school. It's only that one gets in the way of labelling a
fellow. Judith's a funny bird; you never quite know how to take her.
She's extraordinarily pretty, though, and ought to be prettier still
when she's quite fledged. I don't wonder that Jim is beginning to see
it."

"Oh, but I don't think he is yet. As the danger is passing, I don't mind
admitting now that I _was_ the attraction, and perhaps he still thinks
I am. He-- Well, he behaves like that. But it's Judith who really
interests him--I suppose because he interests her. They talk over all
sorts of things together, and he tells her everything about himself, and
what he is going to do. At _present_ he doesn't in the least mind a
third person assisting in their confabulations; and of course _she_
doesn't, except that--you know--she hates giving herself away. I keep
quiet, and listen, putting in a word every now and then, so that I
shan't appear to be just taking notes of them. It's awfully funny; and
rather touching too, sometimes. I'm longing for the time to come when I
shall be found _de trop_. When that happens, something else will happen
very soon afterwards."

"Rather exciting, isn't it? Have the parents tumbled to it yet, do you
think?"

"Not to Judith. Oh, look! There he is! I said he would be over to-day.
Now, if you keep your mouth shut and your ears open you'll see that I'm
right."

Lord Horsham advanced across the lawn towards them, a smile of
deprecation on his face. His apologies and explanations over having
invited himself to lunch, delivered with looks directed straight at
Pamela, seemed to furnish a contradiction to her late pronouncement. But
when he had made them, and addressed a few words to Norman, he drew from
under his arm a large Blue Book, and asked: "Where's Judith? I said I
would bring this over to show her. It's about Rural Housing. You know we
were talking about it the other day."

"Yes," said Pam. "I know she wants to hear more about it. I think you'll
find her in the library, Jim. I won't come in just now, because Norman
and I have something to talk about."

"Oh, I'm sorry I disturbed you. Yes, I'll go and find her. You're _sure_
Mrs. Eldridge won't mind my inviting myself like this?"

He was once more reassured, and went off. "You see!" said Pam, in a low
voice. "I took a bright part in that conversation, but it's with Judy he
wants to go on with it."

"Oh, it's a cinch!" said Norman, with delight. "Dear old silly old
solemn old Jim, and Judith with her golden hair a hanging down her back!
What a lark, Pam! But I say, old girl, I don't quite like the idea of
you getting left in this way. If everything else had failed I did think
you could fall back upon the Viscountess Horsham. Are you sure you don't
mind? You're not hiding rampant jealousy under a mask of indifference,
are you? It is sometimes done, I know."

"No, I'm not. It's an incubus lifted from me."

"Well, it _would_ have been rather rotten. You're made for better
things. What I have thought of doing is to bring relays of bright young
fellows down to stay, and let you run your eye over them. What do you
think of that? I'm rather tired of running about, and I thought I'd stay
here for a bit, and do some work, and play with you."

"Oh, I'm so glad, Norman. It is a little dull here sometimes without
you. As for the bright young fellows, I shall be pleased to inspect
them. I do enjoy a little male society occasionally."




CHAPTER XV

THE RIFT


Dusk was beginning to fall as Colonel Eldridge took a last stroll round
the garden he loved, smoking the pipe to which he had taken when he had
decided that cigars were too expensive for him any longer. The rest of
the family were at the Grange, except the two children, who were
supposed to be in bed. Whether they actually were so or not their father
allowed himself to doubt, with a smile at the corners of his mouth. They
had been keeping him company until summoned by Miss Baldwin, and his
thoughts were still upon them. He had a great love for young children,
but some stiff reserved trait in his character prevented him from
showing it, even to his own, when there was anyone else by. What he
liked was to have them to himself, and listen to their prattle, which
was all music in his ears, though he affected to exercise some control
over it. He would rather stay at home with the children, he had said,
than dine at the Grange; but Mrs. Eldridge had understood that he would
not go there until the dispute between him and his brother was settled.
Sir William was coming down late that evening, dining on the train.

The children actually were in bed; for Miss Baldwin, always eager to get
to her evening's reading, was strict in this matter. She was sitting by
the window that faced on to the drive. She liked best the other
windows, with their view across the lawn, but thought that Colonel
Eldridge might look up and see her there, and feel that he was being
watched. She did take an occasional surreptitious look at him. He was
interesting her at this time, for she thought that he must soon come
into the story which she was weaving around Pamela, and though she knew
how he ought to act in order to advance the interest of the story, she
was not sure that he would fulfil her expectations. It was more
interesting so. One did not always want to look at pages ahead in an
exciting story.

Miss Baldwin was not so immersed in the printed story she was reading as
to be quite oblivious to the beauty of the scene before her, in the
fading light of the summer evening. She sometimes raised her eyes to it,
with a grateful sense of its increasing her enjoyment in the pleasant
hour that was all her own. The sky was an expanse of faint pulsing blue,
passing to a delicate rose above the horizon; the distant country was
losing its sharper details in the pale haze that enveloped it, but the
heavy mass of Pershore Castle could still be seen in the middle
distance, and kept alive in her mind that other story which she was
making for herself.

It was this state of awareness, no doubt, that suggested to her that the
motor-car which she descried on the drive, upon one of her upward looks,
was bringing one of Pamela's suitors to interview Pamela's father.
Horsham had driven himself over a few evenings before, after dinner,
with the offer of a joy-ride. She rose hastily and looked out of the
other window. Colonel Eldridge was still there, looking at his roses
now, in the garden nearest the drive. He would be seen by whoever was in
the car, and it was probable that the ensuing conversation would take
place under her eyes.

The car could be seen more plainly when she went back, and it was a
disappointment to recognize it as Sir William Eldridge's big touring
Rolls-Royce, instead of the more modest and slightly out-of-date Rénault
from Pershore Castle. It had purred up to the iron gate which divided
the gravelled square in front of the house from the park by the time she
had adjusted her mind to the disappointment, and while the chauffeur was
opening the gate she looked out again at Colonel Eldridge, who by this
time had heard it, and was moving towards where he could see who was
coming. She saw Sir William hitch himself out of the driving-seat, and
go across to his brother, with the light active step which she always
admired in him, and heard his hearty greeting. "Well, Edmund, old
fellow, I thought I'd come and have a word or two with you on my way
home, though I wasn't sure that you wouldn't be dining at the Grange.
Eleanor wrote that Cynthia and the girls were."

It seemed to Miss Baldwin that Colonel Eldridge's reply to the greeting
was lacking in the warmth which it invited. But his manner was never so
free and open as Sir William's, who had the pleasantest way with him,
even when he addressed himself to a retiring but appreciative governess.
The words he used had no importance to impress themselves upon her, but
Sir William's next speech, delivered in his clear voice, which carried
them up to her, were: "I'm glad I've found you alone, then. Look here,
old boy, let's get this tiresome business that we've been writing about
out of the way." Here they moved off together on to the lawn. "The last
thing in the world I want is to get up against you, and if I've done or
written anything that has offended you, I'm sorry for it."

There was a pause before Colonel Eldridge replied. His voice was in a
lower key, and by this time they were out of hearing. Miss Baldwin, who
had much delicacy of feeling, shut the two windows which looked on to
the lawn, softly, while their backs were turned to her; but she did not
forbid herself to conjecture what it was that had happened between them
or to taste her own surprise that anything should have happened to bring
forth that introductory speech. She did not connect it with the affair
in which she was so interested, for she had not given Sir William a part
in that story. Probably it was nothing of any consequence, and when they
had talked it over, walking up and down the lawn, Colonel Eldridge with
his pipe, Sir William with his cigar, they would go into the house, and
Sir William would take a little refreshment before driving himself home
to the Grange. The great car stood there below, its latent power ready
to be put in motion at a moment's notice, and the chauffeur stood by it,
as if he, at least, was not expecting to be kept there long.

The two men walked up and down together for half an hour, until it
became too dark to see their faces. Sometimes they stopped in their walk
and stood still for a time, and then they would go on again. Sometimes
Sir William made a gesture, but Colonel Eldridge hardly moved his hands,
except to take his pipe out of his mouth, and once to fill and light it
again. It was impossible for Miss Baldwin, who now watched them,
fascinated by a sense of drama, and with no pretence to herself of not
doing so, to avoid the conviction that their dispute was serious, and
not easy of settlement. She thought she could tell from Sir William's
movements that he was coming to feel more and more annoyance, and that
Colonel Eldridge was also angry, though he was exercising control over
himself.

But surely, it must end some time! It was so dark now that she could
only just see their forms in the shade of the trees, and Sir William's
cigar glowed with a red point of light; and still they went on. She
began to get alarmed lest Colonel Eldridge might look up at the windows
of the schoolroom and notice that they were unlit, and it would be
discovered that she had been watching them, sitting in the dark. But she
dared not draw the curtains now, for that would be to attract attention.

The end came suddenly, and in a way to make her draw her breath. They
had been stationary for some time, and their voices had raised
themselves slightly. She could hear them through the other window, which
remained open, but not what they were saying. Sir William walked quickly
across the lawn, and through the gate to where his car was standing. He
got into his seat, and the twin lights in front of the car blazed out
blindingly. The chauffeur ran to open the gate into the park, and it
seemed to her that he hardly had time to jump on to the car as it went
through it, swinging to behind them. She watched the radiance that moved
with it, and the little point of red light behind it, until it
disappeared over a dip, and then went again to the other window. Colonel
Eldridge was lighting his pipe once more. When he had done so, he
resumed his slow pacing of the lawn.

       *       *       *       *       *

They were playing Bridge at the Grange, Lady Eldridge and Pamela against
Mrs. Eldridge and Norman. Judith, who did not care for Bridge, was deep
in a big chair, reading a book. Her passion for facts, lately fostered
by her friendship with Lord Horsham, had not driven her to choose this
book, which was "Three Men in a Boat." She read it closely, turning over
the pages at regular intervals, and never smiled once. But when she came
to reproducing scraps of its wisdom after she had digested it and made
it her own, she would make others laugh over it.

Her mother's eyes were often upon her in the intervals of the game, with
a sort of critical look, as if she were trying to see her in some new
light. She made a picture to fill the eye, in her white frock, with the
deep purple ribbons at her waist and in her dusky hair. The dark
covering of the chair framed her young form, and threw up the delicate
profile of her face, the long lashes veiling her eyes, the full red lips
a little apart. She was a very beautiful girl, but childhood seemed to
linger about her, emphasized by the way her hair was done, and the slim
crossed ankles beneath her skirt, shorter than she would presently come
to wear it. Was her mother trying to see her as already a woman? It
would not be surprising if others did, though it was doubtful if she
herself was yet ready to step out of the enchanted garden of her
girlhood.

A rubber was just finished, and Pamela and Norman were endeavouring to
come to some agreement about the score, when sounds were heard outside
which caused Lady Eldridge to rise from her chair. "That must be
William," she said. "He's very late. I'll just go and see if he wants
anything."

She went out, and did not return. Pamela and Norman finished their
calculations and leant back in their chairs. Mrs. Eldridge had already
moved to a more comfortable one, and was sitting there in silence,
looking out into the night, through the open French windows.

Presently it became noticeable that they were left alone. Even Judith
looked up from her book inquiringly, but turned again to Montmorency,
relieved, perhaps, at having a few more minutes' respite. Norman said:
"I wonder what they're doing?" Then he and Pamela began to play
Patience, and so they all continued, but with expectancy.

Ten minutes must have gone by before Lady Eldridge came in again. Her
sister-in-law threw a sharp glance at her, but she showed no traces of
anything having happened to disturb her, unless it was in an added
seriousness of expression. "William sends his love, and hopes you will
excuse his coming in," she said. "He has some letters to write before
he goes to bed."

Mrs. Eldridge got up. "It is time we were going," she said, and Lady
Eldridge did not ask her to stay longer, though it was not later than
half-past ten, and their parties did not usually break up so early.
Norman looked quickly from one to the other, and said: "All right; I'll
go and get the car. I shall be ready by the time you've got your bonnet
and spencer on, Aunt Cynthia."

Their light cloaks were in the hall. Pamela went out to get hers, and
Judith followed her, Mrs. Eldridge lingering behind. "William went to
see Edmund on his way home," Lady Eldridge said to her; "and they have
quarrelled. Oh, Cynthia, do put it right! I'll do all _I_ can. We
mustn't stay here now, or the girls will suspect something."

She had spoken with great earnestness, though hurriedly, and immediately
went into the hall, where she talked to Pamela and Judith until Norman
came round with the car. Mrs. Eldridge said nothing; but when she kissed
her sister-in-law good-night, she gave her a pressure of the hand, which
was returned as warmly.

Pamela sat in front with Norman. The car he was driving was half closed,
and the screen behind them allowed them to talk without being overheard
by Mrs. Eldridge and Judith. "Father has been with Uncle Edmund," he
said, "for nearly an hour. I'm afraid they've had a row."

Pamela had not imagined anything of the sort, and was disagreeably
affected. "Oh, they can't have," she said. "Why do you think so?"

"Well, it was odd, his not coming in. And why shouldn't mother have said
that he had been at the Hall? And why should she have stayed out with
him so long?"

Depression seized upon Pamela. She was young enough to feel rather
shocked at the idea of her elders quarrelling, which had never happened
at home within her knowledge. The Hall and the Grange had been in such
close contact for years past that her uncle and aunt shared something of
the feeling that she had for her parents, who had not yet come to be
criticized by their children. It was unpleasant to think of them as
moved by temper, or more than on the surface by irritation, at least
against one another. A rift would affect them all. A disagreeable
impression had already been made by Uncle Bill not coming in to see
them, for he had always given them such a welcome, and hurried to greet
them as if they were a part of his own family, whom he was glad to see
again after an absence.

"I suppose it's about that beastly garden," said Norman. "But mother
told me he had written to her about it, and said that he wasn't going on
with it now. If he went to see Uncle Edmund on his way home, it can only
have been to tell him so."

The implied criticism of her father moved Pamela. "It's no use our
imagining what it is," she said. "Let's wait until we know."

"Yes; we can't do anything. I suppose mother and Aunt Cynthia can,
though. _They_ don't want to quarrel."

"Dad and Uncle William won't either. I should think Uncle Bill is more
easily upset than Dad. If he is annoyed with him now, he will have got
over it by to-morrow."

There was a slight pause. "It's rather beastly, you know," Norman said.
"Already, in the few words we've had about it, I've been looking at it
from father's point of view and you from Uncle Edmund's. I suppose it's
natural; but what I think is that it can't be anything serious, and
there's no reason for us to take sides. I won't, anyhow. I dare say
you're right, and father is more quick-tempered than Uncle Edmund.
They're both jolly good sorts, and I don't think you'll often find two
brothers of their age who get on so well together as they do. I suppose
I'm rather like father myself. I've often said things you haven't liked,
but I've been sorry for them afterwards."

This touched her. It was one of the things that she loved about
Norman--his quick reactions at the call of affection. She had sometimes
been guilty of arousing his annoyance, so that she might see him come
round to her again. "I'm sure we needn't worry ourselves," she said,
with more agreement in her tone than she had used before. "Uncle Bill
not coming in to see us was so unusual that we are making more of it
than it can possibly mean. Supposing they were both angry with one
another just now, it can't possibly last. Even if they didn't calm down
at once themselves, mother and Auntie Eleanor wouldn't let them go on
with it."

Norman laughed at that. "And if they couldn't stop them, we should," he
said. "We're all like one family. Nothing could separate us for long."

When they came to the iron gate where the park ended, it was to find it
open. "Oh, there's Dad!" said Pamela, and called out a greeting to him
as they passed through. "I'm so glad, Norman. _He_ isn't keeping out of
your way. He must have got over it already."

She ran back to her father when the car stopped before the door, and put
her arm through his. "Have you been lonely without us, darling?" she
said. "I'll stay with you till Norman goes through again. I know he
isn't coming in."

It was in his usual rather expressionless voice that he asked her: "Had
a good evening? The children and I practised archery, with some old bows
and arrows they found upstairs. I think we must set that up properly."

It was a great relief to her to find him like this. When Norman came
back slowly through the gate, he thanked him for bringing them home, and
bid him good-night in his usual way. She could see that Norman was
relieved too. There had been if not an actual quarrel something very
like it, but this was the way in which such unfortunate occurrences
between elders should be treated, with nothing of it allowed to be seen
by those who looked up to them. She could not help comparing his
attitude with that of Uncle William, who had taken it in such different
fashion. Her father's dignity and self-control seemed to her to exhibit
itself plainly beside his unwillingness to show himself under his
annoyance. It was not difficult to judge which of the two was more
likely to have been in the right.

They shut the gate and went back to the house. Colonel Eldridge kissed
her good-night. "I'll go and have a word with mother," he said.

Yes, something had happened, and her father and mother would talk it
over together. And very soon it would all be put right. Uncle William
and Auntie Eleanor were also probably talking it over, and she would
certainly bring him to the right frame of mind. He was such a good
sport, though without the essential wisdom that showed up so plainly in
her father. He must have been in the wrong; but he was so generous and
so affectionate that it would not take him long to see it and to say so.

As for Norman, his uncle's greeting had removed his discomfort entirely.
The best of friends were apt to fall out occasionally, and if that had
happened between his father and his uncle, it was nothing to worry
about. He dismissed them from his mind as he sped down the drive, until
he had to slow up for that part of the road which was under repair, when
it occurred to him that this was probably what the row was about. The
workmen who had been engaged for work at the Grange had been snooped for
work at the Hall. Really, that _was_ rather thick! There was no doubt
that Uncle Edmund had an arbitrary way with him; but he was a thoroughly
good old sort, all the same. Norman had many kindnesses to remember from
him, from his early boyhood, when country pursuits had not come to him
so readily as they did now, and during his visits to the Hall it had
always been thoughtfully arranged that he should have all possible
opportunities for enjoying himself.

He did not accelerate to his former pace when he had passed over the
loose stones but leant back in his seat and crawled along, so as to give
himself up to the romance of the summer night, and all the moving
thoughts that his surrender to it would bring him. The young moon had
not long since risen, and bathed the undulating spaces of the park in a
soft, silvery sheen. The night coolness after the heat of the day
brought sweet, sharp scents to his nostrils. The still beauty of the
night seemed to be inviting him to something more than a solitary
appreciation of it. He wished he had suggested that they should go for a
longer drive. He and Pam both loved the beauty of the earth, and would
have expressed their love for this sweet aspect of it to one another,
heightening their own appreciations, as they did with every new
discovery they made about truth and beauty. Pam was a girl in a
thousand. His thoughts dwelt upon her, though he had thought of inviting
them to the contemplation of another figure. As an only child he was
lucky to have these girl cousins at the Hall, in place of sisters, and
especially Pam, whom he had loved since she was a tiny child, Pam, who
had grown up to take so many of her ideas and opinions from him, as a
girl should, with one much older, who had seen more of the world than
she had. Pam was grown up now; sometimes she expressed ideas of her own,
and was inclined to assert them, as she had not been wont to do. That
made her more interesting, for he would not have had her a mere echo of
himself; and he knew that, for all her little charming airs of
independence, she still looked up to him and admired him, which was
right too, for although there were many better fellows than himself, he
had taught her to accept the right pattern. Pam would be throwing
herself away if she chose from another one. He was glad that the danger
from Horsham's incipient suit seemed to be over. It was odd that he
should be coming to prefer Judith, who, in spite of her beauty, had none
of the bright charm and cleverness of dear Pam; but Horsham certainly
wasn't good enough for her, though he would do very well for Judith. As
for that outsider, Fred Comfrey...!

Norman accelerated here, and did not slow down again until he had
reached the elaborate iron gates which gave access to the Grange. He had
had the idea of a long moonlight drive by himself, with his thoughts to
keep him company, but changed his mind now, and went in.

As he entered the brightly lit hall, the remembrance of the occurrences
of half an hour before returned to him. He hadn't seen his father yet,
who would probably be in his room, for he never went to bed early. He
would go in and find out all about it.




CHAPTER XVI

CRISIS


Mrs. Eldridge was waiting for her husband in his room, where he usually
sat for an hour or so after she had gone to bed. The lamps were lit and
the curtains drawn. She was standing by the fireplace, and still wore
her cloak over her evening gown. She looked amazingly young for her
years as she stood there in her graceful evening guise, with an
expression of almost childish alarm in her eyes, looking up at him
expectantly.

"Did you see William?" he asked her shortly.

"No," she said. "He wouldn't come in to us. We came away about a quarter
of an hour after he had come, without seeing him."

"Ah!"

He was very quiet in speech and manner, with an air as it struck her, of
great depression. She could not be sure, until he had spoken, of what
had happened, that he had not something deeply to regret upon his own
part.

"Better sit down," he said, "and I'll tell you about it. Until William
apologizes to me for things he has said, and dismisses that man Coombe
for his insolence, I won't see him or have anything to do with him. But
I don't want you or the children to make any difference. Let's hope
Eleanor will bring him to reason; I know she has a good influence over
him. She may not want to meet me; I've thought of that. But I should
like you to go to the Grange as usual. I don't want you to quarrel with
William either. We'll leave the quarrelling to him, as he seems bent on
it."

"Tell me what happened, dear," she said. "He came here on his way home,
didn't he?"

"Oh, yes; with an air of coming to put everything right by making
handsome concessions over something he doesn't care a hang about. If I
was so unreasonable as to question anything he had done he would give it
up--of course. I wasn't to be allowed to have had any reason on my side;
it didn't matter even that he'd mistaken me, and that I hadn't wanted to
stop what he was doing, and had tried to get it carried on. He waved all
that aside--didn't want to talk about it. What he did want was very
plain. He wanted to show himself as the large-minded man who could make
all allowances for a narrow-minded fool of an elder brother always
standing on his own petty dignity. However, he'd be careful not to tread
on my corns in that way again. Let's forget all about it and begin
afresh. I would have swallowed all that--I did swallow it--for there was
some right feeling behind it; but...."

"Edmund dear," she interrupted him, "before you go on--oughtn't we to
keep that in front of us as the thing that really matters? William is
fond of you, and you of him. When Eleanor and I have been talking it
over, we...."

"It has got beyond that now," he interrupted her in his turn. "What
neither you nor Eleanor can see is that William is not the same man as
he used to be. What really matters, you say! What really matters is what
he founds himself upon; and what he founds himself upon now is his
money, and the place he has made for himself in the world. Fond of me?
Yes, I dare say he is. He'd like to do this or that to help me where
things are difficult; but it's to be on the understanding that I knuckle
under to him. I can't accept his help, or his--or his fondness on those
terms. I'm fond of him, you say? Yes--or of what he was before his
success spoilt him. When he returns to that, things shall be as they
were between us. Until then, I've got to take him as he is now; and
without loss of self-respect I can't do it and keep on terms with him."

"What was it, then, that you quarrelled about?"

He hesitated at the word. "William may call it quarrelling," he said. "I
suppose it is just a quarrel to him. I shouldn't admit that I
quarrelled. He got very excited, and I didn't. That's the plain truth. I
didn't feel excited; I felt very sad."

"My poor old darling!" she said tenderly. "It's too bad of William, with
all the troubles you have had on you."

He went on, in the same quiet, unemotional voice: "I accepted his good
will. Yes, I did that, though his way of expressing it was distasteful
to me. But I said that I didn't want the cause of complaint set aside
like that. I thought that the reasons I had given against the extra
garden-making were sound; but they didn't override other considerations
and I should prefer it to go on. That didn't seem to suit him. In the
mood he was in, I suppose he didn't want _me_ to be the one to make
concessions. But I rather think, from something he let fall, that he has
something new on hand to interest him, and the garden plan means nothing
to him now; or at any rate that he would rather give it up, on the
grounds of giving way to me, than go on with it because I have given way
to him. That's one of the ways in which his money has spoilt him. When a
man has a lot of money, and doesn't care for just piling it up, he's
always looking about for ways of spending it; and the last way he has
found is all important to him, until he finds another one; then his
interest in it goes. I'm sure that's how it is with William. But I was
firm about it. 'It may not interest you now as much as it did,' I said;
'but the way in which it has been thrown over will reflect upon me, if
it is given up altogether. For one thing, there's Barton's Close already
cut up, and you can't leave it like that. You must either go on with the
work or put it back as it was. It has been put about that I stopped the
work, unreasonably; and the men who were doing it are now working for
me. If you want to do justice to me, you'll remove all that talk, and
you can only do it by going on. When the road has been mended,' I said,
'you can take on that extra labour again, and get all the digging and so
on done in time to plant!'"

"Did he make any fuss about the men being taken on for the drive?"

"It was one of the things that he had put aside, with a wave of the
hand, as if I had done something that I ought not to have done, but he
would overlook it with the rest. That was why I mentioned it. I wasn't
going to justify myself about it, but I said: 'The men wouldn't have
gone straight back to work for you after being sent away; but they will
when the time comes, if I talk to them.' He didn't quite like that
either. He was gradually losing his position as being entirely in the
right, but giving way because it wasn't worth while to come up against
me in something that didn't matter. It does matter, and I was determined
not to close it up on those terms.

"At last he agreed to go on, but by that time he had lost a good deal of
his--what shall I say?--expansive manner, and gave in grudgingly. Then
he was for going home, and if it could have been settled at that, there
would have been an end of the affair. I had left Coombe out of it until
then, for I didn't want it complicated by something that I thought would
probably be new to him altogether. I said: 'There's one thing, William,
that I must ask you to do and that is to send Coombe about his business.
If it hadn't been for him the work would have been going on now. You can
easily satisfy yourself about that,' I said, 'and I don't press it. But
Coombe spoke of me openly with the grossest impertinence, and in a way
that you would have resented just as much as if you had heard it. I've
held my hand,' I said; 'I left it till you came down. But something has
got to be done about it now.'"

"You didn't tell me, dear, that you were going to say that Coombe must
be sent away."

"I didn't talk to you much about Coombe, did I? I took it for granted
that William would dismiss him when he knew what sort of man he was.
Servants may talk about you behind your back, and I dare say most of
them do. But when it is brought to your notice you can't shut your eyes
to it. If I had heard one of mine speaking of William in the way that
fellow spoke of me, I should have sent him about his business in
double-quick time, however useful he was to me."

"Did William refuse to do it?"

"He haggled about it. He had always found Coombe perfectly respectful.
Surely I was mistaken. He couldn't have said what he was reported to
have said. If I showed annoyance at all perhaps I showed it then; but I
had myself in hand. I knew that if I got into the excited state that he
was beginning to get into then, it was all up. Besides, I was determined
that he should get rid of Coombe. For one thing, it will be a sort of
test of his sincerity, for I don't deny that it will be of some
inconvenience to him. Coombe is a good gardener, and they are not so
easy to get now. But it's a monstrous idea that a man who has openly
shown his hand in that way should be kept in the place. It would have a
bad effect all round. William ought to be able to see that, and I told
him so."

"Did you tell him exactly what the man had said?"

"I told him the worst of it. I said: 'One of the things that was
repeated to me was that I was jealous of your money and your title, and
I should stop you doing anything you wanted to do in Hayslope if I
possibly could. Are you going to keep in your service a man who has said
a thing like that about me?' I asked him. He said he didn't believe it
had been said; somebody was trying to stir up mischief. I said: 'I'm
afraid, William, that your money and your title have had an influence in
this place that isn't exactly what you think it to be. This man Coombe
has only let some of it out. Still,' I said, 'he's let it out in such a
way that it can't be passed over. The only way you can possibly put it
right is to show that _you_ are not going to stand that sort of talk,
and the only way you can do that is to send Mr. Coombe marching. And
that's what you'll do,' I said, 'if you mean what you have been saying
about wanting to put things straight between us, and to work in with me
here at Hayslope.'"

"Yes," she said with a sigh, "I think you were right there."

"I'm sorry to say that that was too much for him. It was the end of
anything like reasonable talk on his part. Every now and then he seemed
to be trying to pull himself together, as when he tried to get from me
who had heard those words said; but when I told him, he said that I had
only got them third-hand, and it wouldn't be fair on Coombe to sack him
without giving him a chance to defend himself. I said I shouldn't expect
him to do anything but deny it all. 'And with all respect to you,
William,' I said, 'I'm not going to make you a judge between me and your
servant. You can ask old Jackson, if you like, what happened; but even
by doing that you'll be appearing to doubt my word, and you won't want
to do it if you're ready to act rightly by me. As long as that man
remains in your service,' I said, 'I'm not going near the Grange. You
owe it to me to send him away.'"

"Was that at the end of all?"

"No. He wouldn't promise to do it without making inquiries for himself,
and I said: 'Very well, then; you are putting yourself definitely
against me here. I suppose you understand that. How do you propose that
we shall go on living next door to one another with this between us? It
will be known all over the place that Coombe has insulted me, that you
have been told of it, and don't think it necessary to take any steps.
It's an impossible position,' I said."

"Surely he could see that, couldn't he?"

"He had worked himself up into such a state then that he couldn't see
anything. After that, until he went away, he was simply offensive. He
justified everything that I have said about his attitude towards me and
more. Oh, I don't want to go over it all. I should think he'd be sorry
when some of the things he said come back to him. There was he, spending
his life in the service of his country, and here was I, consumed with
jealousy of him and thinking only how I could put spokes in his wheel.
It's that accusation of jealousy that I won't put up with. He must
withdraw it and apologize for it before I'll meet him again. It means a
break, Cynthia. I had time to think it all over before you came home.
I'm afraid it means a break. He brought Eleanor into it. He gave me to
understand that she was up against me for what he was pleased to call my
dictatorial ways; it wasn't only he who had suffered under them. If
that's so, she won't try to put it straight, and that's really the only
chance with what it has come to now."

"Oh, my dear, she will. I know she will. She and I talked about it the
other day. I know what is in her mind. She only meant that first letter
you wrote, and she said that that was all wiped out now. I told you,
didn't I? She is longing for it to be put right. She will do all she
can, I know."

"I hope so. It will be a very serious matter if it isn't put right. But
I stand upon those two points. William must take back that accusation of
jealousy. It's a wrong thing for one brother to say of another."

"Oh, yes. If it was said in the heat of the moment...."

"I'm afraid that what was said in the heat of the moment was only what
has been building itself up in his mind for a long time past. It's a
result of his deterioration. Because I don't treat him as I suppose
other people do who worship success--and he has come to want that--I'm
jealous of his success. He can't see straight any longer; he can't see
me as I've always been, and am still. _That_ is what is between us, and
it goes deeper than anything he has said or done. He isn't any longer
the brother I used to have."

She saw that he was deeply moved and that it was no time now to say
anything to alter his mind. Besides, the one fact that she and Eleanor
had both insisted on as lying behind everything--the affection between
the brothers--seemed no longer to govern the situation. Their ways had
widely diverged, and it looked as if they had drifted apart in spirit
as well as in the interests they had once held in common.

Her husband rose from his chair with a deep sigh, and said something
that she was unprepared for. "Thank God, that I've still got you and the
children left to me!"

She broke down and shed tears, but dried them immediately, for she knew
how he disliked the expression of emotion, and that his own had been
wrung from him only by deep feeling. He kissed her good-night and said
kindly: "Don't take it too much to heart. And if you and Eleanor can
mend it between you, you won't find me implacable. I've gone a long way
in trying to put it straight, and I'll go further if it's necessary."

"If William will apologize?" she said, making a last effort.

"I'll do without an apology. After all, it isn't words that I want. Let
him dismiss Coombe, without any further to-do. I'll take that as
covering everything. I dare say I said things to him that offended him
as much as he offended me, though it is certain that I held myself more
in hand than he did. No, I don't want any apology. But he must dismiss
Coombe."




CHAPTER XVII

HONOURS


The difference between Colonel Eldridge's room at the Hall and his
brother's at the Grange was a good deal more than the difference between
a room in an old house and one devoted to like uses in a new. Indeed if
you had averaged the age of their contents, the room at the Grange would
have shown the earlier date. It had been one of the latest additions,
when furniture and decoration had become a source of keen interest to
its owner, and there had been no lack of money to carry out his tastes.

There was no bright Turkey carpet or American desk here, as in Sir
William's room in London. He wrote his letters at a Queen Anne Bureau,
bought at Christie's for a sum that would have paid for everything in
his brother's room and left a substantial amount over. There was no
insistent colour, to detract from the rich subdued values of this and
other fine pieces of furniture. A few pictures of the early Dutch
school, which Sir William particularly affected, hung upon the walls,
panelled in dark oak. The electric light glowed and sparkled from a
lustre chandelier of Waterford glass. The few ornaments admitted were
also mostly of old glass, and as many of them as were suitable held
flowers. There was a beautiful soft-hued Persian carpet, and curtains of
heavy brocade of no determinate hue. Only the books in the
glass-fronted Sheraton bookcase were mostly new, many of them in rich
bindings; and the easy chairs and sofa were of the latest word in
comfort.

The room was a success from first to last, and Sir William felt it to be
so every time he entered it. And yet he still gained, whenever he went
into his brother's room at the Hall, a sense of satisfaction for which
he would perhaps have exchanged the different sort of pleasure that he
took in his own creation. That room, with its old-fashioned furniture of
no special value; its faded and threadbare carpet, and shabby easy
chairs; the untidy books on the shelves; the paintings, prints and
photographs that crowded the walls; the medley of ornaments and
knicknacks on the mantelpiece and side-tables; the gun-cases,
cartridge-cases, game-bags, golf-clubs, and all the litter of a
sportsman's room; the very smell of it, compounded of tobacco smoke and
leather, slightly musty paper, and slightly damp dog, with a reminder of
ripe apples mysteriously underlying it all--it meant quiet and ease and
a thousand associations of indoor and outdoor life, hardly any of which
were represented in the room that was his. He had even been slightly
ashamed of his room when he had first shown it to his brother, who had
said: "It's very fine. I've never seen a finer, for a fellow who can
live up to it. It wouldn't do for me, because I couldn't keep that old
shooting-jacket of mine hanging up behind the door." That was it, Sir
William decided afterwards. It was really a room for a man who liked to
live in a drawing-room, and he didn't want, himself, to live always in a
drawing-room, even a man's drawing-room. Still, he liked to have
beautiful things about him, and with that taste you had to discriminate.
You couldn't get the two kinds of attraction into the same room. He had
the one, and must do without the other.

It was this room that Norman entered when he returned from the Hall. He
had none of the doubts about it that his father sometimes expressed. His
appreciations were finer than his father's. Sir William had to possess a
treasure of art for it to give him the acme of pleasure. Norman loved it
for itself, and he loved the beautiful things in this room. His
appreciation of it even affected him now, as he went in, though he was
thinking of something else. His mother, in her evening gown, sitting
near a great bowl of flowers, seemed to him to add to its value; his
father, standing over her, in the light tweed suit in which he had been
travelling, seemed slightly out of place. It was a room in which, if you
occupied it in the evening, you ought to be dressed for the evening.

This impression, however, was momentary, for a stronger one immediately
took its place. He had expected to see his father considerably
disturbed, and his mother disturbed too, but by this time less so than
his sharp eyes had made her out to be when she had said good-bye to his
aunt and cousins. For she was a queller of disturbance, in herself and
others, and might by this be expected to have made her mark upon his
father, though not perhaps to the extent of quieting him altogether.

But there were no signs of disturbance upon their faces at all, nor in
their manner. His father was leaning up against the mantelpiece,
talking with some show of excitement, certainly, but with a smile upon
his face; and she was looking up at him, not smiling, but with interest
and sympathy.

Sir William turned round, as he came into the room. "Ah, Norman!" he
said. "Here you are! I've been waiting for you. You come into this
little affair, as well as mother and me. You'll want to hear all about
it."

Norman sat himself down, with his hands in his pockets. "I always want
to hear all about everything," he said.

His father laughed. "It's rather exciting," he said. "I really hadn't
been expecting anything of the sort. They've offered me a peerage."

"Good business!" said Norman warmly.

Sir William laughed again. "It will come to you some day," he said.
"That's one reason why I feel pleased about it."

"When the time comes," said Norman, "I shall grow a little tiny chin
beard, like the peers in 'Iolanthe.' But I thought you were going to be
a Member of Parliament, father."

"Well, that is being a Member of Parliament--of the Upper House. Oh, it
isn't--I've been telling mother--just a mark of honour for what I did
during the war. They gave me a knighthood for that, which closed the
account. They want me for something else now--a new business altogether.
I won't go into the details of it now, but they want somebody in both
Houses for it. It was just a question in which one I should be of most
use, and it was decided finally that someone else--I won't mention his
name yet--should look after it in the Commons, and I in the Lords. It
will mean a lot of work, but I don't mind that. I like work, and I
really think I can do something in this job they've given me. I know I
did good work in the war, and I've had the feeling sometimes--though
I've kept it to myself--that enough notice wasn't taken of it. I don't
mean in the way of reward, for I didn't do it for reward; but I thought
they might have found me of such use that they would want to give me
something else to do, when there's so much that wants doing. Well, it
seems that they haven't lost sight of me at all; they have only been
waiting for an opportunity. And now it has come. Yes, I'm very well
pleased about it."

"So am I," said Norman. "And I'm jolly glad it has come in that way. If
they had given you a peerage instead of making you a knight, people
might have said you had paid out cash for it. They wouldn't have said it
to you, but they might have said it to me. Fellows will say anything to
you nowadays; it's the modern technique. I shall be an Honourable, I
suppose. I shall have to put up with a lot because of that. But I shall
live it down in time. When is it coming off, father?"

Sir William did not smile at this speech. "There's a lot of nonsense
talk about buying peerages," he said. "I've been saying to mother, only
just now, that I doubt whether there has ever been a single instance of
a man putting down so much money and getting a peerage for it, or even a
baronetcy. Or, if things were ever done in that way, they're certainly
not now. As far as I'm concerned, I'd just as soon have done what I'm
going to do in the Commons as in the Lords. For many things I would much
rather have been in the Commons. But it would have meant fighting an
election, with a lot of time and energy wasted; and _that_ would have
cost money. On the whole, I am glad it was settled as it has been.
You're pleased too, Nell, aren't you? I wouldn't have taken it, you
know, Norman, without first consulting your mother--and telling you. I
haven't yet, as a matter of fact, though I promised to write, either
accepting or declining, to-morrow."

"Oh, I hope you won't decline, father. I didn't gather there was any
chance of that. I've got rather keen on it now. Aren't you, Mum?"

She smiled at him and then at her husband, looking up at him. "I'm very
glad," she said, "that they want you again. And I know that you will do
splendid work, as you did before. It will mean a lot more work for
father, you know, Norman; but it will be work that he will do well and
enjoy doing."

"You never were a half-doer, were you, father?" said Norman. "I should
think you would wake up the old Lords a bit. The general idea seems to
be that they can do with it. What are you going to call yourself?"

Sir William's face lost its brighter look. "There's a slight difficulty
about that," he said. "In the ordinary way I should take the title of
Hayslope. It would be the natural thing, as we've been here so long,
and--and--considering that Hayslope is coming to me some day. The
trouble is that it isn't mine yet, and I'm afraid the present owner
might object. He'd have no reason to; but...."

Norman's ears were disagreeably affected by that phrase "the present
owner." The dispute, which he had forgotten until that moment, was
serious, then.

Lady Eldridge spoke, in her quiet firm voice. "I think you ought to
know, Norman," she said, "that Uncle Edmund is showing himself hostile
to your father. Father went to the Hall to tell him, first of all, about
what has been happening, but there was a disagreement that had to be
cleared out of the way first, and he found it impossible to do it."

Sir William shifted his position. "I've done all I can," he said. "The
dispute was about a twopenny halfpenny affair which I've been trying to
put right ever since. I've given way upon all points--more than I ought
to have done; but it's of no use. Nothing's of any use. He's determined
on quarrelling. I can't do any more."

"I suppose it's about that garden," said Norman. "What does Uncle Edmund
want done about it?"

"What does he want done about it? I wish to God you could find out.
First of all he makes himself offensive because I began it. Very well! I
overlook the offence and I stop it. But that doesn't do. I'm told I
shall be damaging his position in the place if I don't begin all over
again. Very well; I say I will, when he has finished with the men I took
on for the work, and he took from me for _his_ work. Then I'm told that
before I do anything else I've got to get rid of the man who has been
doing it all. Something has come to his ears that Coombe is supposed to
have said about him. A wise man would have shut his ears to that sort of
gossip; but because of it, I'm to dismiss a man who has served me well,
out of hand, and without giving him a chance of defending himself. I
said I'd look into it; but he wouldn't have that. To ask questions of
anybody would be to doubt his word, though all he has to go on is what
somebody told somebody else who told him. It's perfectly childish; but
I'm not going to bother about it any more. I've got far too much to do.
If he wants to break with me, he must. _I_ don't want it, and I've gone
all lengths to pacify him. But the fact is that he isn't a big enough
man to be able to see me going ahead in the world while he's standing
still. All his life he has considered himself my superior. He's my elder
brother, and I've given in to him. I've given in to him over this, up to
the limit. But now he asks too much. I shall just have to go on, and
leave him out of account."

"If we weren't all living at Hayslope," Lady Eldridge said, "it would be
easy to keep apart for a time, and the friction would die down. What we
must do is to make the best of it until Uncle Edmund becomes more
reasonable. Neither you nor I, Norman, need take notice of it unless we
are forced to. Father wants us to treat it in that way."

"Oh, yes," said Sir William. "He can't visit my sins upon you; and I
certainly don't want to visit his upon Cynthia and the girls. You must
go on as much as possible as before. He won't come here, and I shan't go
to the Hall. That's all the difference it need make, and when we have
gone on for some time like that, I dare say he will come round--see he's
been making a fool of himself." He paused for a moment. "I know you're
not used to hearing me talk of him like that, but I really can't help
myself. I've been sorry for him lately, and have done my best to help
him over the troubles and difficulties he has had. But none of that
seems to count for anything. He was so--so coldly and obstinately
determined to have his own way this evening that it thoroughly upset me.
He seems to have nothing in him to respond to the feeling I have always
had for him--no kindness, no generosity. I'm not used to losing my
temper, but I'm afraid I did lose it with him this evening--his
arrogance worked me up to such an extent. No doubt that will all be
brought up against me. Actually, I came away without telling him what I
had gone there to tell him. That will be brought up against me too. I
really can't cope with it any longer. It's an infernal nuisance that
this place, which would be more than ever a recreation to me now, should
only be turned into a worry. But I won't have it so. I'm not coming down
here to be plunged into little local bothers, which take more settling
than any of the big things I have to deal with. For the present he and I
had better keep apart."

"I'm afraid it's the only way--for the present," said Lady Eldridge.
"But it is a very unhappy state of things."

Norman had listened to his father's speech not without discomfort, which
was increased by his mother's acceptance of it. "You and Uncle Edmund
have always been good pals," he said. "I should have thought mother and
Aunt Cynthia might do something together to put him right. I expect he
would want to behave decently, if he saw the way."

"I'm quite ready to leave it to them," said Sir William. "If they can
bring him to reason I'll put it all aside--any time. It's all I want to
do. But there's one thing I won't do, and that's to dismiss Coombe
off-hand on his orders. I shall have him up to-morrow, and hear _his_
story. And I shall ask that old Jackson what happened. I'm kindly
permitted to do that. If I find Coombe has gone altogether too far, I
shall consider what to do next. But I'm not going to be hectored and
pressed to act hastily on a one-sided second or third hand statement.
I've a pretty good idea of what did happen. Edmund goes down to find the
men working at the garden; he examines Coombe about it in an arrogant
sort of way, and shows him plainly that he's annoyed with _me_--he
wouldn't mind that, though it's _lése majesté_ to breathe a word of
criticism against _him_. Then when he's gone, Coombe, who after all owes
loyalty to me and not to him, lets something drop before men who take it
up and make mischief of it to score off him--perhaps because he was
getting rid of them, though he was acting under orders there. Oh, it
isn't worth while going into it all. I'm sick to death of the whole
business. Here we are now, going over and over it, when there's
something of real interest to ourselves to talk over. We'd better go to
bed, I think. I'm afraid I've worked myself up again. To-morrow I dare
say I shall be able to see it all more calmly. I can't to-night."

When Norman went to his room he did not immediately get ready to go to
bed. The window attracted him, open to all the loveliness of the summer
night, and he went and leant out of it, taking into his nostrils the
scent of the dew-steeped earth, and into his ears the little noises that
a nature-lover can perceive and distinguish, where to others there is
only silence.

The world was so beautiful, and life was so full and interesting, that
it was impossible for him to be affected overmuch by either of the
factors that had just been introduced into it. The honour that was
coming to his father he thought a very proper one, and he had seen that
he was pleased about it, not only because of the work that it would
enable him to do. Norman had no fault to find with that. It would be
rather fun to call yourself Lord Something-or-other, though the thrill
would probably pass off sooner than you expected. It would even be
rather fun to be called "the Honourable" though that would no doubt pass
off too--rather more quickly. That seemed to be about all there was to
it; but there had been so many peerages created of late years that there
had even come to be something to deprecate about such handles to your
name. You were always coming across fellows you had never heard of
before who called themselves, quite legitimately, "the Honourable." He
would be one of them now, and he grinned to himself as he imagined the
chaff to which he would be subjected on that account, and formulated a
few of the replies he would make to it.

But he had soon exhausted the subject, and his smile faded as that other
troublesome affair took its place in his mind.

He didn't like that at all. It seemed to contradict all the jolly things
that were connected in his mind with his uncle, who was stiffer in
manner than his father, but so kind-hearted underneath it all. He had
never thought of him as he had been reflected in his father's speech,
and it was difficult to think about him like that now, though he
certainly seemed to be behaving in a way that could scarcely be
defended.

His window overlooked the wooded valley that lay between the two houses,
and the opposite hill. A corner of the Hall could be seen from it. His
thoughts went out to his cousins, asleep there, and especially to Pam,
whom he loved more than the others. He and Pam were as close friends as
they had always been. He couldn't do without Pam. He always wanted to
tell her everything that had happened to him, as he supposed fellows who
had favourite sisters did. But he was not quite so sure now of her
always adopting his views. She was getting together a collection of
views of her own. How would she take this?

It was not necessary to accept seriously what she had said this evening
about their backing up their respective parents in any dispute between
them, and quarrelling with each other because of their quarrel. Her
mother and his wouldn't do that. They would try to get at the rights of
the case. There must be a right and a wrong somewhere, and it was
probable that there was some of each on both sides. He had only heard
his father's story so far, and Pam would only hear _her_ father's. They
ought to put their heads together and balance the two.

He thought over this for some time, and came to the conclusion that they
were not likely to agree, which somewhat depressed him. Then he thought
it over further still, and it seemed to him that the only thing to say
to Pam was: "You and I can't get at the rights of it, so let's leave it
alone altogether, and by and by it will right itself. And above all,
don't let it make any difference to us."

Would Pam accept that, as the course laid down by his superior wisdom? A
year or two ago, she certainly would have done so. If she didn't now, it
would seem as if he had lost some of his influence over her.

Hoping that she would, but a little doubtful of it, Norman presently
went to bed.




CHAPTER XVIII

FRED COMFREY


"Sir William Eldridge, who was recently raised to the peerage, has taken
the title Lord Eldridge of Hayslope."

Mr. Comfrey read out this item of information from his newspaper, as he
sat at breakfast with his wife and his son, and expressed his
satisfaction over it. "I'm glad it has been settled like that," he said.
"He will simply be called Lord Eldridge, and there can't possibly be any
objection to it. Lord Hayslope would have made a good title, but under
the circumstances it would hardly have done."

"I don't see why not," said Mrs. Comfrey. "It would be ridiculous of
Colonel Eldridge to object, and he'd have no grounds for it either."

Mr. Comfrey was a mild-mannered man, who took his opinions upon worldly
affairs very much on his wife's recommendation; but as she took hers
upon ecclesiastical affairs chiefly on his, he never felt his
self-respect wounded by her somewhat peremptory methods. She was a
short, broad woman with a somewhat masculine type of countenance, which,
indeed, had been reproduced with surprising fidelity in her son. She
might have been expected, from her appearance, to be immovable in
whatever opinions she did hold, in face of whatever opposition. But she
was very apt to weaken on them if they proved unwelcome to those with
whom she wished to stand well. Perhaps if her husband had ever tried to
controvert them he might have secured an occasional option upon views of
his own; but he would have had to do so long before this, for by now she
had established her ascendancy. Fred seemed to pay no respect to them at
all, with the consequence that she often wavered before him. But they
remained good friends. She admired her son, built in her own image, and,
if he did not admire her, he liked her treatment of him since he had
returned home, which was very different from what it had been when he
was a boy.

Fred's whole attitude towards his home had changed since his boyhood.
Hayslope was a college living, and a small one at the best of times. Mr.
Comfrey, who had gained no particular scholastic honour, would not have
been offered it if its emoluments had been enough to attract a bigger
gun. He had scarcely any money of his own to supplement them, but his
wife had brought him a few hundred a year, with which they had managed
to get along. There had never been enough for anything but a skimped
existence, and Fred had not enjoyed the same advantages as those of
other sons of the clergy in the parishes around Hayslope, still less of
the well-endowed laity. He had been glad enough to get away, at an early
age, and not for some years had had any desire to come back again.

But after a time, his memories had softened. His home life had been dull
and meagre, but the inconvenient, sparsely-furnished old house with its
shady garden gradually grew upon him during his hard exile; and all
around it was the country in which he had tasted some of the delights
which better-endowed youth enjoyed so fully. When he did come back he
had money of his own. His mother made no difficulty about accepting a
substantial payment from him for his board, which removed the effect of
scraping from the Vicarage household arrangements; and he did pretty
well as he liked at home, which he had never been allowed to do before.
It was pleasant enough to idle there during the months of his
convalescence, and to feel that he need not hurry them.

And there was the Hall, which had always provided him with an outlet
into the kind of life denied to one of his parentage. If it had been a
place of desire to him in his youth, it was a thousand times more so
now, for it enshrined Pamela, who threw her sweet radiance upon
everything about her.

For one who had lived roughly, as he had, and mostly with men for years
past, it was a revelation of quietness and happiness to be taken in upon
intimate terms to such a life as was led at the Hall. It was happiness
of a sort that he had never imagined for himself. It was not entirely
because of Pamela that he hugged himself upon the memory of those hours
he had spent in the schoolroom, helping the children with their games,
or of other hours in other rooms of the quiet, spacious house and in the
summer playground of the garden. Love had softened this young man, not
cut out by nature, it would have seemed, to tread the gentler ways of
life. Love had transformed for him even the shabby rooms and overshaded
surroundings of his own home, since Pamela had enlightened them with her
presence. He had thought of himself as staying there only so long as his
health required it, and then leaving it again to plunge into the
excitements of the career that he had marked out for himself. But still
he lingered on, though now he was nearly strong again, and would soon be
ready for the fray. He did not suppose that he would have any chance in
the pursuit upon which his mind was set until he had something more
definite than at present to lay before Pamela's parents; nor did he
suppose himself as yet to have made any impression upon Pamela herself
in the way he was determined upon. It would be better for him to go away
for a time, and to come back every now and then with something done to
recommend himself further to her and to her parents. But he could not
bring himself to make plans to go away yet.

"Colonel Eldridge has never been consulted on the matter," said Fred, in
answer to his mother's speech. "To my mind he has every right to object
to the way in which he has been treated."

"It is difficult to get at the rights of the quarrel," said Mrs.
Comfrey. "But we all know that Lord Eldridge, as I suppose we can call
him now, isn't a quarrelsome man, and I'm sure nobody could call Lady
Eldridge a quarrelsome woman."

Mr. Comfrey chipped in before Fred could speak. "I think it's a pity,"
he said, "to talk about a quarrel at all. There has been an unfortunate
misunderstanding which I'm very sure will soon be cleared up."

"There _has_ been a quarrel," Mrs. Comfrey pronounced, "and a pretty
serious one. The two brothers are not on speaking terms. It's no good
shutting your eyes to facts. I suppose we shall keep out of it as long
as we can, but I think we shall have to take sides in it sooner or
later, and I must say I'm inclined to take Lord Eldridge's side."

"Oh, my dear," expostulated the Vicar. "Don't talk about taking sides.
I'm _sure_ it isn't necessary. We've always been good friends with both
families. Do let us remain so, I beg of you."

"I agree with mother," said Fred, at which she brightened visibly, but
drooped somewhat when he added: "There's enough to go on, and I'm on the
side of the family at the Hall, all the way and all the time."

"Well, of course," said Mrs. Comfrey, "you have had the Hall almost as
your second home all your life, and I suppose it's natural that you
should think more of it than of the Grange, which is new since you went
away. But there's no doubt that the Grange is a more important house now
than the Hall, which isn't what it used to be and won't be again until
Lord Eldridge succeeds his brother there."

Mr. Comfrey made a deprecatory gesture, and Fred said, rather roughly:
"What do I care about all that?"

"What I mean," Mrs. Comfrey hastened to explain herself, "is that with
your way to make in business, Lord Eldridge may be very useful to you,
and it would be a pity to go against him. Of course, if Hugo hadn't
died...! What I mean is that Colonel Eldridge isn't the chief man in
Hayslope any longer, and...."

She tailed off ineffectively, but picked herself up to add: "Norman has
taken the place that used to be Hugo's. You used to be great friends
with Norman."

"I hate Norman," said Fred, "and always did. I dare say Sir William may
be of use to me when I get started. I haven't lost sight of that. But
I'm not going to pay too high a price for his help. The people at the
Hall are my friends, and I'm not going back on them."

He was not offended by his mother's crudities, having nurtured himself
on crudities and practised them, all his life. Nor was he going to make
her partaker of his secret hopes, or even, if he could help it, give her
cause for suspecting his desires. "Sir William was quite decent to me,
when I saw him," he said, "and Lady Eldridge has asked me--once--to the
Grange since I've been home. But look at the welcome they've given me at
the Hall! I don't care much for female society; it's never been in my
line. But as long as I'm living quietly here, I like to have the Hall to
go to; and I believe Colonel Eldridge likes to see me there. I find
plenty to talk to him about. No, I'm not going back on them."

Mrs. Comfrey expressed her appreciation of the nobility of this
attitude. It had occurred to her once or twice that Fred might be
attracted by Pamela, but the idea had taken no firm hold of her mind.
She knew that he was not a lady's man, as he would have expressed it,
and besides, the difference in social status between the Eldridges and
themselves had always been accepted by her, although she liked to make
use of such phrases as, for instance, that the Hall had always been a
second house to Fred. The Eldridges, living now in a far more restricted
way than before, had come to have less value in her eyes; but they were
still a good way above the level upon which Fred would be likely to look
when thoughts of matrimony engaged him. His reference now to talks with
Colonel Eldridge confirmed her view that he went to the Hall for the
reasons that he said he did, and not for the sake of Pamela in
particular. But she brought in Pamela's name, just to see how he would
take it.

"Pamela being so thick with Norman," she said, "I dare say they will do
more to keep the peace than even Lady Eldridge and Mrs. Eldridge."

"I shouldn't count too much on that if I were you," said Fred. "Pamela
takes her father's side, and she's quite right too. I don't pretend to
know what she thinks about it all, because I haven't asked her, but it's
my opinion that she's getting a bit sick of Norman's swank. He's always
been a sort of tin god to those girls, and now they're older they're
getting tired of taking all their opinions from him. At least that's how
it seems to me with Pam."

Mr. Comfrey arose apologetically from the table. "I think I'll leave
you, if you don't mind," he said, and as they did not mind, he left
them.

Fred's speech had been unconcerned enough until it had come to that last
word. He had not been used to calling Pamela "Pam," and there was just a
something in his voice to lead Mrs. Comfrey a little farther in her
investigations. "Pamela has grown into a very pretty girl," she said. "I
wonder if there is anything in what they say about her and Lord
Horsham."

"It's not at all unlikely," said Fred, in such a tone as to remove the
last traces of suspicion from her, though for his own comfort he allowed
himself to add: "I don't think _she_ has any idea of it yet though."

"It would be a good match for her," said Mrs. Comfrey; which ended the
conversation.

Half an hour later, Fred made his way to the Hall. It had been hard work
for him to conduct himself thus unconcernedly with his parents, for
something exciting was before him, on which all his mind had been
working ever since he had last seen Pamela the evening before.

It was not true that he had not talked over the current affair with her.
He had borne himself in such a way, with a mixture of reticence and
sympathy, that she had first of all mentioned openly to him the fact of
the dispute, which she had not intended to do, and had then discussed it
with him in all its bearings. What he had told his mother of his being
on the side of the Hall was entirely true, for he had shown himself such
an ardent partisan that Pamela preferred him as a receptacle for her
confidences to anybody else. So far, Colonel and Mrs. Eldridge had held
to their custom of keeping their children out of such discussions. Their
hold on it was already weakening, for it was becoming impossible to
ignore the dispute altogether. Pamela and her mother had talked about
it, but not yet without many reticences on Mrs. Eldridge's side. Pamela
and Judith had agreed that it was a nuisance. The children were supposed
to know nothing. Miss Baldwin didn't count.

There remained Norman. Norman had behaved well about it, Pamela thought.
At the very outset he had said to her that it was impossible for him and
her to get at the rights of it, and that he didn't particularly want to.
He looked up to his uncle almost as much as to his own father, and hated
to think of either of them being discovered in the wrong. They, too, had
better leave it out of account, and go on being pals as before. Then
Norman had gone away on a visit, and had written to Pam, a long letter
from a country house in which Lady Margaret Joliffe was also staying. He
had written a good deal about her, but the most important of his
statements was that there was another fellow there whose attritions she
seemed to prefer to his. "My proud spirit won't brook rivalry," was his
comment upon the situation. "I must be all or nothing. By the time I
come home I shall be able to tell you whether I'm all or nothing." He
had come home two days before, and had told her with a grin that his
fate still hung in the balance; and she divined that that affair had
passed its zenith, and would soon fade away like the rest.

Oh, if only this unhappy cleavage could have been mended, how pleased
she would have been to have Norman back at Hayslope for the full month
he now intended to stay there! His letter had been very grateful to her.
No mention had been made of the trouble at home. He had written with his
old-time affection, as if she were the one person in the world to whom
he could go with everything, and to whom he wanted to go with
everything. At that distance away, what he omitted from his letters may
have seemed of small importance, but when he returned it could not be
so. It was bound to come up between them sooner or later, and when it
did come up they could no longer be absolutely frank and outspoken
together. Each of them must be very careful not to say anything that
could arouse opposition in the other.

For a fortnight had passed since the brothers had met and quarrelled,
and nothing had been mended yet, though attempts had been made.

Sir William had written to Colonel Eldridge the next day, telling him
first of all of the honour that was to be conferred on him, which he
said he had intended to do the evening before. He regretted exceedingly
what had passed between them, and if he had said anything in the heat of
the moment that had offended his brother he regretted that too, and
apologized for it. He had given careful consideration to his brother's
demand that he should dismiss his head gardener, and, as he understood
the demand, without giving the man the chance of defending himself
against the accusation brought against him, and had decided not to act
in a way that he thought would be arbitrary and unjust. But he had
examined Coombe upon what he was reported to have said and had no doubt
that it had been much exaggerated. Something Coombe had admitted to have
said that was not respectful to Colonel Eldridge, after he had come down
to where he was working and expressed his annoyance at what was being
done. Sir William hoped very much that his brother would take into
consideration the fact, of which he seemed to have lost sight, that the
slight put upon him, Sir William, in this expression of annoyance at
what he was doing was considerable. He had not allowed Coombe to repeat
to him what had actually been said to him, but had given him a pretty
stiff rebuke for the disrespect he had admitted to. Might not this be
allowed now to close the account? It was a most disagreeable thing for
them to be at loggerheads in this way, after all the years of close
intimacy that had existed between them and their families. For his part
he was ready to forget all about it, the moment his brother gave him the
chance.

To which Colonel Eldridge had replied shortly that he congratulated his
brother upon the honour he was about to receive, and that he must abide
by the stipulation he had made before they could return to their old
terms with one another.

Then Lady Eldridge had gone to the Hall, and had a long conversation
with him and his sister-in-law. Cynthia had seemed to want him to give
way, but he had refused to do so, firmly though not with the slightest
show of temper. He had, in fact, treated Lady Eldridge with the most
courteous consideration, but he had put her in somewhat of a difficulty.
"I don't think William sees the situation very clearly," he had said. "I
haven't so many outside matters to occupy my thoughts as he has, and I
do see it clearly. Have either of you ever expressed to one another this
idea that I am jealous of William's success in life, which has been so
much greater than mine?"

She had cast down her eyes and there had been an awkward pause, which he
had cut short by saying: "That feeling has never existed in my mind, and
therefore I can't have shown it. That's what's between us, Eleanor--that
unjust and damaging accusation. William sees nothing more than
disrespect in what his servant said to me, but I see that accusation
defended in him, and as long as he's here, allowed to spread unchecked.
William can only put that right by dismissing Coombe. It's no good
writing any more or talking any more until that's done."

So Coombe remained the obstacle to at least a formal reconciliation. For
he did remain, and it may be supposed that his tongue was not idle in
the village, where, however, he was not liked. Colonel Eldridge was; far
more liked than his brother, in spite of Sir William's open-handed ways.
He was stiff, but he was kind. He lived among his people, and they knew
that he was interested in all of them, though he was never
hail-fellow-well-met with anybody. There was growing up a strong body of
support for him, in a controversy into which the village folk had a far
clearer insight than might have been supposed. If he had escaped the
jealousy that had been laid to his charge, they had not, on his account.
It was hard lines that the Squire at the Hall should have to give up
this and that that he'd always been accustomed to, and Sir William at
the Grange should be rolling in money. It didn't seem right somehow. And
the Colonel had been out and fought in the war, and lost his only son
too, while Sir William had stopped at home and made money. No, it didn't
seem right, did it? And now they'd gone and made him lord and all; and
when the Colonel died he would step into the Hall, and Mrs. Eldridge and
the young ladies would be turned out. And so he'd have everything, which
didn't hardly seem fair, whichever way you looked at it.

That was the way the majority of opinion went, and when the affair at
Barton's Close came to give point to it, crystallized into still sharper
criticism. No wonder the Colonel had objected to that--money chucked
away in cutting up good pasture, and more labour wanted for a garden
that wouldn't be no use to anybody, while the garden at the Hall was run
with two men short now, and the road through the park was getting into a
dreadful state. It was generally supposed, and approved of, that Colonel
Eldridge had peremptorily stopped the garden-making at Barton's Close.
Quite right too! Time he stopped something! He hadn't thought of the men
who'd lose their jobs by it; but see how he'd put that right! He hadn't
wanted to spend the money on the road, but he wasn't one to see a man
out of a job if he'd got one to give him. They'd work for him too, and
at less wages than they could get working under a man like Coombe.
Coombe ought to have been sent off for what he'd let out about the
Colonel. It wasn't the way to talk, for a man who'd been brought into
the place when there were other men there who could have done his job
just as well as he could. Sir William would have sacked him too, if
he'd done what he ought. They did say that he'd quarrelled with the
Colonel for stopping him cutting up Barton's Close. Sir William was
getting a bit too big for his boots. That was about the size of it, and
it wouldn't do him any harm to be told so.

Thus the commonalty of Hayslope, not knowing everything that had passed,
and splitting no hairs, but ready to endorse in their Squire a more
unreasoned attitude than he had actually yet taken. It was not
suspected, either at the Hall or the Grange how keen was the interest in
the dispute, or even that it was known that the brothers were keeping
apart; for there was still coming and going between the two houses as
before, and a great carefulness that no significant word should be
dropped before the servants. But Pamela, going about in the village, had
sensed the feeling of expectation. Coombe, she felt sure, was still
making mischief. If only Uncle William would send him away, there might
be a chance of their all settling down again.

Treading very delicately, she put it to Norman. Couldn't they do
something to find out what was going on? Uncle William wouldn't believe
that Coombe had made mischief. But if it was proved to him that he had!

Norman took refuge in their compact, but in defence of it made it plain
that he thought her father's demand unreasonable. This warned her that
she mustn't look to him for any help now. He was on his father's side,
as she was on hers. She couldn't blame him, but it was good-bye, for the
present, to the freedom and confidence that had always existed between
them. She felt sad, when he had left her, but a little hurt with him
too, because he had failed her.

Fred wouldn't fail her. He showed himself eager to help her in any way
that she might suggest. What they were going to do this morning was to
see old Jackson together, and get from him exactly what had happened at
first, and what was happening now.




CHAPTER XIX

INVESTIGATION


Old Jackson was in the gravel-pit, half a mile up the road from the
lodge gates, which made a walk long enough for Fred to have thought over
with fluttering anticipations, ever since Pamela had asked him to see
Jackson with her. It was she who had suggested that it would be better
to talk to him there rather than in the openness of the park, when the
carts had brought down their loads.

They started off across the park by a footpath which led to the road
higher up the hill. It was not the first time that Fred had been alone
with her, but they had not been for a walk together before, as this
ostensibly was. "We're going for a little walk," Pamela said, her stick
in her hand, as they met her father coming along that very path, and he
seemed to see nothing to remark in the thrilling fact. "Come back to
lunch," he said to Fred. "There's something I want to consult you
about."

Colonel Eldridge had treated Fred with a courtesy; that had gratified
him exceedingly, and such an invitation would have given him food for
pleasurable conjecture if his mind had not been full of something else.
"Poor old Dad," said Pamela, when they left him and went on. "I suppose
it's this horrid quarrel he wants to talk about. There's nobody he can
unburden himself to about it. I shall be glad if he does to you. You
must encourage him to talk quite freely."

Yes, Fred would do that. Things were going extraordinarily well for him.
It was a great deal to have Pamela confiding in him. He would hardly
have been undergoing this moving intimate experience of a country walk
with her, but for the disturbance in which Hayslope was involved. If
they were also to bring him into close personal touch with her father,
they would be doing him very good service.

Pamela moved along beside him in the active grace of her young girlhood,
talking to him quietly and confidentially. He answered her in the same
tone, alert to make the response that she would have him make; but only
a part of his mind was upon the subject that alone held hers. The rest
of it was in a ferment of incredulous wonder and self-gratulation. He
stole a glance at her every now and then and wondered afresh at finding
himself in this sort of companionship. Everything about her was fresh
and sweet and virginal. In all his mean experience of sex he had never
thought to have been so moved by the mere proximity of such a girl as
this; in all his selfish, uninspired experience of life he had never
thought to have been thrilled by a pure emotion. She made him hate the
thought of evil, and turn away with disgust from his baser self. If he
was ready to plot and scheme to get her, and would not be too particular
what weapons he used if it came to a fight, once having made her his
own, he would tend the spiritual flame that she had lighted in him.
Already he was a better man because of her. He knew it and rejoiced in
it, who had not previously desired to be anything better than he was.

They left the park and went for a short distance up the shady road, to
where a track ran off among the trees to the shallow pit at the end of
it. The rich red gravel lay in ruled banks and mounds where it had been
dug out, and the men who were working at it were filling the two carts
which were to carry it down to the park. Old Jackson was working as hard
as anyone, as well as directing it all. He was a fine figure of a man,
with his upright sinewy frame kept supple by use. His face had that
delicacy of line and feature which is to be found among the true sons of
the soil, perhaps as often as the result of generations of blue blood.
His eyes were clear and keen, with a look in them not far removed from
the innocent look of a child. Such men as he may take orders from others
all their lives, but they never lose their dignity of manhood.

The carts were nearly filled. Fred and Pamela waited until they were
ready to be moved, and then Fred told Jackson that they wanted to speak
to him. Would he send the carts on and stay behind for a few minutes?

He gave the orders and returned to them, putting on his coat. "Have you
got a pipe?" asked Fred, offering him his opened tobacco pouch; but with
a glance at Pamela he refused. Fred put the pouch back into his pocket,
and his own pipe with it, and began rather hurriedly: "Miss Eldridge
wants to ask you a few questions. Perhaps you know that there's some
misunderstanding between Colonel Eldridge and Sir William about Coombe,
Sir William's gardener. If you can tell her exactly what happened when
Colonel Eldridge came down to Barton's Close, she thinks she may be able
to do something to straighten it all out. She'll see you don't suffer
from anything you tell her."

Some such opening had been agreed upon between them, but Pamela's brows
came slightly together at the last sentence. "I do want to know exactly
what Coombe did say," she added. "I know you didn't like his talking as
he did about father, so I thought you'd help us about it if you could."

The old man looked away. There was something pathetic in his expression
of patience and slight puzzlement. "I told the Colonel," he said slowly.
"He's always been a kind master to me, and I'm glad to be took on by him
again."

"Yes, you wouldn't like to hear him spoken against," said Fred. "Sir
William wouldn't either, if he knew of it. But Coombe seems to be a
clever sort of man in the mischief he makes, and he's persuaded Sir
William that he didn't say anything that could be objected to. But you
heard him, didn't you?"

The blue eyes came slowly round to Fred and rested on him again, and did
not leave him this time. "I don't know as I want to make that known to
all and sundry," said old Jackson. "There's a many asks me, but I say to
them as I say to you, that the Colonel's been a good master to me, and I
don't like such things said."

Pamela understood him and said quickly, before Fred could speak: "You
don't want to repeat it, do you? I'm glad you don't. But...."

"But there are others who heard it," said Fred. "And it must have been
put about all over the place. You won't do Colonel Eldridge any harm by
telling us."

The old man's face changed slightly as he looked at Pamela. "Don't you
go for to mix yourself up in it, Missy," he said. "Nobody scarcely don't
pay attention to what that there Coombe says about the Colonel. He don't
come from these parts, and we knows the Colonel." He turned to Fred
again. He seemed to have found his speech now. "'Tain't for the likes of
Miss Pamela to be mixed up in it. What comes to your ears here and there
you keep to yourself, or say to others, and not to her. None of us who
belongs to Hayslope don't want the young ladies mixed up in this."

Fred ignored the rebuke, which struck him unpleasantly. "Well, I belong
to Hayslope too, you know," he said, "though I've been away from it for
a good many years."

"What's for the likes of us ain't for the likes of her," returned the
old man, looking full at him. Then he looked again at Pamela. "Don't you
mix yourself up in it, Missy," he said, in the almost caressing tone
which he had used towards her before. "I'll get along down to the road
now."

He took a step away from them and then turned round again. "I said to
young Norman yesterday," he said, "'if you want to hear the rights of
it,' I said, 'you can ask Dell or Chambers,' I said. _He'll_ tell you,
Missy. 'I won't have nothing more to do with it,' I said. 'You can ask
Dell or Chambers.'"

Fred's face wore a disagreeable look as he frowned after the old man's
broad back. As a boy he had played with the village lads, and held a
sort of leadership among them, but more because of his athletic prowess
than from any recognition on their part of his superior station. The
elders of the village, recognizing his rough clay, had paid him hardly
more respect than if he were one of their own sons. It was plain that
Jackson considered that no more was owing to him now. If not quite one
of themselves, he was not for a moment to be counted as of the elect.

Had Pamela understood the snub that the old man had given him? He
smoothed away the frown and turned quickly to her. But she was looking
down, and on her face there was a frown too of perplexity.

"Norman has been asking him questions," she said.

"Norman," he said. "I wonder why. And I suppose he went to those other
two men. Of course they'll tell him anything he wants to hear."

She did not quite like this. She started to walk along the track, Fred
at her side, his brain working quickly. "I think the old man is right,"
he said. "You ought not to be mixed up in this--not in the way of asking
questions yourself, I mean. Let me ask them for you. Very likely, if I'd
had old Jackson alone, I could have got something out of him. I'm quite
sure I can out of those other two, and it's important I should, now that
the enemy has got to work."

She looked at him with an expression that he had not seen on her face
before, and instantly regretted having called up. "Norman isn't an
enemy," she said. "If he has been asking questions, it is because he
wants to get it all cleared up, as much as we do."

"Oh, yes," he said evenly. "I didn't mean anything else. But it would be
only natural that he should want to see his father justified. Much
better get at it from another side. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll see
these men in their dinner hour. I don't suppose it will take very long
to get it out of them. Then I'll come straight up to the Hall, and I
shall be able to tell you before lunch."

"I'm not sure I wouldn't rather see Norman first," she said; but she
said it rather doubtfully. Norman might have told her that he was going
to make inquiries on his own account, instead of saying that neither he
nor she could do anything. Fred had offended her in calling him the
enemy, but he was probably right in attributing some bias to Norman. She
did not disguise from herself her own bias, and when Fred said again
that it would be better to get the story for themselves, she acquiesced.

"I'll go now," he said, when they came to the gate that led into the
park. "It's nearly a quarter to twelve, and I shall catch them coming
back. I want to go home first."

It cost him something to leave her; there would have been plenty of time
to walk with her to the Hall and back to the village by twelve o'clock.
But he knew he could not trust himself to hide his antagonism to Norman,
if she were to discuss his intervention further. He did not want to
arouse that defensive and offended look in her face again. When he next
met her he expected to have firmer ground under his feet. She was
already a little doubtful of Norman. He wasn't in the least doubtful. Of
course Norman was gathering material for his side; if not he would have
told Pamela what he was going to do. Probably he would tell her, when he
had done it; but Fred would have told her first. He had a score to wipe
off against Norman.

He did not go to the Vicarage, but to the Hayslope Arms, where he was
quite accustomed to making himself at home. On his first arrival at
Hayslope he had frequented it, picking up old acquaintances there, and
establishing himself as one who had made his way in the world but had
not become proud on that account. The men who had been boys with him
liked him well enough, and he was free with his money. When all his
thoughts had become centred on Pamela, he had left off going there; the
contrast between what had satisfied him in the way of company and what
was open to him at the Hall was too great. He felt some slight
repugnance now as he entered the sanded bar; but he was keen in spite of
it, for he realized that the book of the village gossip was open to him
whenever he liked to dip into it, and that if he had not of late cut
himself off from his old associates he might have had much material to
manipulate. But it would be easy to pick it all up, and Norman had no
such chances, though those who came in contact with him liked him.

Pamela took a book into the garden, to a seat which commanded a view of
the drive, and waited with what patience she could muster. She felt a
little guilty, but allowed no patience with herself over that. It
seemed to be she alone who could straighten out this tangle, which was
making her father so sad that it wrung her heart to see him. His
dejected look when he thought himself unobserved, still more his forced
cheerfulness with his children--oh, it was sad to see! And she loved
him; she thought she loved him better than anybody in the world, better
even than her mother, over whom she was rather puzzled at this time. Her
mother never allowed herself to be unduly perturbed about anything, and
met her own troubles with a whimsical philosophy which Pamela had
admired greatly, since she had been old enough to see that they were
such as many women would have made themselves miserable over. Certainly
she had lightened the burdens that her husband had had to bear, by
showing herself happy with what was left to her, and encouraging her
children to do the same. She and Pam had often talked that over
together. They were never to let him see that they missed anything, and
her mother would never acknowledge to her that she did miss anything.

But in this new trouble that admirable spirit of cheerfulness hardly
seemed adequate, or even suitable. Pam knew that her mother and her aunt
had essayed to put it right, but not having been able to do so they
seemed to accept it, and to want as much to be together as before. Pam
was beginning to think that such an intimacy could only be possible if
it was agreed that neither side was more worthy of blame than the other.
Did her mother take that view? Pamela couldn't. There might be two sides
to the quarrel, but what mattered was that it bore far more hardly upon
the one than upon the other. She had seen that quite plainly for
herself. Her father was depressed and saddened by it. Her uncle seemed
to have put it aside altogether. He had been more than usually kind and
affectionate to her on the one occasion on which she had been to the
Grange since the split, obviously with the intention of showing himself
so. But he had also been in more than usual high spirits. Of course he
was pleased about his peerage and all that! And it was nice of
him--perhaps--to want to show her that the quarrel had made no
difference in his feelings towards any of them, except one. But she, at
least, could not dissociate herself from that one; it seemed a
disloyalty to go to the Grange and to be treated by Uncle William as if
nothing had happened, while he stayed at home, alone and sad, because so
much had happened. Uncle William was far more free with his expressions
of affection than her father had ever been. His manner to his brother
had always seemed to show great affection, and she had never doubted
that he felt it towards him. But it was he who was showing himself
almost unaffected by the estrangement, while her father was feeling it
deeply.

The decision was growing up in her mind to talk to her uncle herself.
That was why she wanted to find out more than she knew already of what
had actually happened. She knew that her father made a point of Coombe's
dismissal. If she could go to him and tell him why she thought he ought
to give way...! It would be greatly daring, on the ground she had always
occupied with him, when apparently her mother, who must have made some
appeal, had failed to move him. But she knew that her mother had taken
no steps to find justification for her father's attitude. Nobody seemed
to have thought of doing that except herself--unless it was Norman. But
she could not be sure of Norman, yet, though she was quite unwilling to
take Fred's view of his investigations.

She saw Fred's figure top the little rise in the drive which hid the
lodge from where she was sitting, and her eyes rested upon it as it
approached and grew larger, with a gaze of inquiry, almost of
exploration. She had not been unaffected by Norman's freely expressed
dislike of Fred; but in a matter of this sort she must abide by her own
knowledge and observation. Fred had been rather a horrid sort of boy,
but that ought not to tell against him if he had turned himself into
rather a good sort of man. She thought he had, though there seemed to be
a common streak in him which slightly offended her sometimes. But surely
a man who was not "nice," after all the hard experiences he had
undergone, would not have shown himself so appreciative of the quiet
domestic life that they lived at the Hall. She knew, of course, that he
admired her, and probably frequented the Hall largely on her account.
But his liking had never shown itself in a way to make her take counsel
of herself; and that was another point in his favour. Her father liked
him, and evidently trusted him, or he would not have wanted to consult
him about something, as he was about to do. And he was whole-hearted in
his defence of her father. That was more in his favour than anything
else. It was enough, at any rate, for the present. She rose and went to
meet him, not without eagerness.

They went back to her seat and he told her what he had discovered, but
not how or where he had discovered it.

The gist of it--very carefully imparted, so that at no point could she
take umbrage at it--was that Norman had been making his inquiries with
the quite obvious intention of proving that nothing had been said that
it was worth making such a fuss about. The two men, indeed, who did not
belong to the village, now denied stoutly that Coombe had gone beyond a
very mild protest at the work being stopped. They seemed to be in with
Coombe again and it was quite likely that they were expecting well-paid
work from him, when they had got through with their present job. Their
denials had been so obviously insincere that it was scarcely worth while
wasting time with them. Fred would not suggest who had primed them, but
it was quite plain that they were saying only what they were expected to
say, and would stick to it.

"If it is so," Pam said, "it must be Coombe who is priming them. Of
course he would want as little made of it as possible."

Fred thought this very likely--with a reluctant air that seemed to
indicate that he knew better, but didn't want to say so.

"Pegg, the other man, tells a different story," he said, and repeated to
her some of the things that had been said by Coombe about her father,
which made her blush hot with resentment. "Did Norman talk to him?" she
asked.

"Yes."

"And did he tell him that?"

"Well, no, he didn't."

"Why not? Do tell me everything." She was becoming impatient over his
hesitations.

He plumped it out: "Because he saw that it wouldn't be well received.
These men know on which side their bread's buttered, and they are not
going to give themselves away. Even Old Jackson--he's working for your
father now, and hopes to be kept on, but he doesn't want to offend Sir
William. None of them do. Pegg hopes to be kept on here too, I think,
and he doesn't mind giving Coombe away, but he isn't going to give him
away to Norman. That's how it is, and it's no good hiding it. I don't
know what Norman really wants, but it's quite plain what these men
_think_ he wants, and that's to back up his side of the quarrel.
Everybody knows there is a quarrel now, and nearly everybody is on our
side. I've found that out. I think you must leave Norman out of it, if
you're to do any good."

She thought this over, but made no reply. "Is Coombe still making
mischief?" she asked.

"He's rather frightened, I think, and has kept his mouth shut lately;
but everybody knows that he would do Colonel Eldridge any injury that he
could. They think he ought to be got rid of. He's a bad influence in the
place."

Pamela rose. "It's nearly lunch time," she said. "Thank you very much
for helping me. I must think what to do."




CHAPTER XX

A QUESTION OF FINANCE


"I wanted to ask your advice."

Colonel Eldridge stood in front of the empty fireplace, filling his
pipe; Fred was in one of the shabby leather easy chairs, smoking a
cigarette. The room was very quiet and retired, looking on to a corner
of lawn surrounded by banked rhododendrons, under the shade of a great
hornbeam.

Colonel Eldridge seemed to have some difficulty in coming to the point.
He put the lid carefully on his old lead tobacco box, and lit his pipe
from a box of matches on the mantelpiece before he spoke again.

"You and Hugo were friends together as boys," he said.

"Oh, yes. And we wrote to one another once or twice after I went abroad.
I only just missed him once when we were on the Somme. I wish I'd seen
him before he was killed."

"Well, I don't suppose you know that he gave us a lot of trouble, poor
fellow. At least, you may have heard something. I needn't go into it
all; it was mostly about money. He was very extravagant, and raced and
gambled and all that. He was young; he'd have got over it in time, and
settled down, I've no doubt. He did his job well enough; I've got a
letter from his Colonel, which I was very glad to have."

He went on for a time, again apparently finding it difficult to come to
the point. He did so suddenly, and it was not exactly the point that
Fred had anticipated, from his introduction.

"The fact is, I want to raise some money," he said, "four hundred
pounds."

"Yes," said Fred, at random. "That ought to be easy enough."

"Well, it isn't so easy in these days." He sat down in the chair
opposite to Fred's, and spoke with more freedom now. "I've paid a good
deal on Hugo's account," he said. "Claims have kept coming in, and I
thought we had come to the end of them. But I had another a few days
ago. I've been puzzling my head how I was to meet it. I've got to meet
it, in fact I've undertaken to do so early next week. I don't want to go
to my lawyers."

He came to a stop again. Fred's thoughts were very busy. What was going
to be asked of him? Why couldn't Colonel Eldridge go to his lawyers
about a sum so small as this for a man of his property? He had no words
at his command for the moment. His business instincts and habits were
too strong for him not to feel slightly, though unwillingly, on the
defensive.

But fortunately none were required of him just yet. "I don't know what
to tell you first," Colonel Eldridge said. "Perhaps I'd better tell you
everything, though I'll keep back names."

He took a letter out of his pocket, and opened it. Fred cast
surreptitious glances, but the letter was held so that he could not see
it.

"This is from the mother of a brother officer of Hugo's, who was
killed--some time after he was. She has found among his papers an
I. O. U. of Hugo's for four hundred pounds; she encloses it. She writes
quite nicely. She has kept it some time, not knowing quite what to do
about it. She doesn't want the money; but she thinks it ought to be
paid. She would give it to some charity in her son's name."

"An I. O. U.?" said Fred. "I suppose you've satisfied yourself--"

Colonel Eldridge cut him short. "Oh, I quite agree with her," he said.
"I don't know her, by the by, and I suppose Hugo didn't either, or she
would have said something about him--not only in connection with this, I
mean. There's no need to ask what the transaction was. Very likely, I'm
afraid, it was a card debt, or something of that sort. Anyhow, the money
was owing from him, and is owing from me now. Her way of dealing with it
is the best. I've promised to send her a cheque next week."

It seemed to Fred foolish to have done so, but it was no good saying
that. "There's nothing, I suppose, to come out to Hugo's detriment," he
said. "If you pay it without question it ought to be understood that it
isn't talked about."

"As far as she is concerned, I should think she'd want it talked about
as little as I should. If they were gambling together it might just as
well have been her son who had owed it. But you've put your finger on
the trouble, as it happens. _I_ don't want it talked about, outside this
room. The fact is that poor Hugo's delinquencies have brought about a
state of feeling towards him that gives me great pain. He did some very
foolish things--bad things, you may say, if you like--and they've been
exaggerated into things that he never would have done. I quarrelled with
one of my oldest friends about it. He took back what he said, and we've
come together again, I'm glad to say. I've got Hugo's good name to
consider. My brother William has known everything so far, and he has
been very good about it. I've had to raise money to pay off what has
been owing--it's a very large sum in all--and I couldn't have done it
without his co-operation, now that he's in remainder to this property.
But I know quite well that he takes a worse view of Hugo than I think
he's justified in taking. I can't--I simply can't go to him about this,
though it's a mere flea-bite compared to what has had to be paid
already."

He seemed to have forgotten for the moment that he had cut himself off
from going to his brother about anything. And he had not told Fred that
the date upon the claim he had to meet was that same black date as had
seen the transaction over which Lord Crowborough had brought his
disgraceful accusations against Hugo--accusations which he had been
forced to withdraw. The hornet's nest must not be stirred again. "No, he
mustn't know of this," he said. "And my lawyers mustn't know of it, for
if they did, he would."

"You couldn't--?"

"My dear Fred, I've been so confoundedly hit by the war, and all this
coming on the top of it, that I simply couldn't raise a hundred pounds
at this moment, let alone four hundred, without some sort of property
adjustment. And that would mean disclosing everything, which I won't do
if I can possibly help it. But I've thought of this. I'm always getting
money-lender's circulars. You know the sort of things, of course. I'm
not such a fool as to suppose that I can borrow money in that way on
anything like an ordinary rate of interest. But I'd pay very heavily to
get this money at once, with no security but my word for repayment. Have
you ever had any dealings with these people? I know young fellows do. I
might quite well have done it myself, but as a matter of fact I never
did. Hugo did, and they fleeced him unmercifully. I don't want to be
fleeced; but I can do what they always seem to want, and that is pay by
regular instalments. My income is pretty well fixed now for some time to
come. It's a tight fit already, and this will make it tighter, but what
I can do is to pay two hundred a year until I've cleared it off, with
the interest."

Fred was ready with his answer. His brain worked quickly in questions of
this kind, and he knew his man--or thought he did.

"Don't go to those sharks," he said. "It's perfectly easy. I can find
you the money at once. The interest would have to be ten per cent, I
think, but--"

"I don't want _you_ to lend me the money, you know."

Fred had thought that he did, and thought so still. But, of course, a
man in his position would want the decencies observed. "I hadn't thought
of that," he said. "But as a matter of fact it would suit me very well
to do it. I've got rather more than that lying idle--gratuities, and so
on--and I couldn't get ten per cent on it without taking some trouble,
and even then it would be more risky than this. Really, it would be the
easiest way, sir, and I should be glad of the opportunity."

"Oh, you could get more than ten per cent, lending money without
security. I shouldn't offer security, you know. To do that, I should
have to go to my lawyers."

"Your word is security enough for me, sir. I couldn't have a better
wherever I went, and I've been meaning to go somewhere for the last
month or more. I'm a business man. I don't like having money doing
nothing. This would be a business deal for me, and at ten per cent a
good one. I say nothing about obliging you. It would give me great
pleasure to do it, but I should think it rather cheek to offer it on
that account."

Under all the circumstances, known to Fred but unknown to Colonel
Eldridge, it was considerable cheek as it was. One of the circumstances
was that Fred hadn't got four hundred pounds lying idle, or even forty.
He wasn't that kind of man.

"It's kind of you to say that," said Colonel Eldridge. "Let me think it
over for a moment."

He sat upright in his chair, which was not a deep one like Fred's, and
looked into the empty grate, with no expression on his face that could
be interpreted. Fred's opinion of him lowered itself somewhat. What was
the good of keeping up this farce? Of course he would accept. He was
lucky to have such a chance offered him. And Fred was lucky to be able
to offer it, to Pamela's father.

Colonel Eldridge turned his quiet direct eyes upon him. "It's a very
kind offer on your part," he said. "For which I'm grateful. But I don't
see my way to accepting it."

Fred did not understand in the least, but knew somehow that it would be
waste of time to press his offer.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But tell me how I can help you in any way."

Again he looked away, considering. "I'm afraid," he said, with a little
wry smile at Fred, "that I hadn't thought it out very clearly. You knew
my poor Hugo. There's no one I can talk to about him quite plainly."

Fred didn't understand the bearings of this either, but he recognized a
call upon his sympathy, to which he made haste to respond. His feelings
were cold towards the memory of Hugo; and he was stirred to no generous
impulse towards the man who had given him a glimpse of his loneliness
and come to him, of all people, to relieve it. But he had done well for
himself, with Pamela, in taking her father's side, and was being given
an opportunity of doing still better for himself with him.

He said some nice things about Hugo in his boyhood, and laid stress upon
the sacrifice he had made, which had wiped out all his errors. Colonel
Eldridge accepted it all, but perhaps it wasn't quite what he wanted,
for lack of the feeling behind it, which, if it had been true, would
have brought balm to him. "Well, I don't want to throw his name into
discussion again," he said. "Perhaps I shall have to. I don't think I
could go to one of these people and bargain with him. I should make a
poor hand of it. And I wouldn't pay the preposterous terms that they
seem to demand when you do go to them. It wouldn't be right. I'd had
some idea that as you know about business, and all that, you might be
able to suggest something. But I hadn't thought of your offering to find
the money. I couldn't--"

"I won't press it," said Fred. "What I could do would be to find
somebody who would advance it, on suitable terms. That wouldn't be
difficult. You might have to pay a bit more than ten per cent, but I
should try to get a loan for that, and I know I could get it for
twelve."

He had absolved him from having angled for the offer he had made, and
thought that it had been refused because it did not consort with Colonel
Eldridge's dignity to accept a loan from him. He "knew about business,
and all that." He recognized the attitude of a man to whom all
transactions outside those of which he had personal knowledge were a
mystery known to the elect, of whom he was considered one. In face of
that child-like ignorance it would be easy enough to arrange this
affair.

"I should consider myself lucky in getting a loan at twelve per cent, or
even more. Do you mean that you really could make it a purely business
transaction--get me an introduction, or something of that sort? I
appreciate your very kind offer, of course; but it couldn't be purely a
business transaction between you and me. Supposing I were to die, before
it was paid off--one has to think of that--the claim would come upon my
estate, and--well, you see it wouldn't do."

Fred did see that, from Colonel Eldridge's point of view. It would be
necessary, but not difficult, to hide his tracks. "All you would owe to
me would be the recommendation," he said. "And I could put it through
more quickly and easily than you could yourself. If you'll say the word
I'll go up to-morrow and arrange it. I shall bring you down a paper to
sign, and then you can deal straight with the man I shall introduce the
business to. I shan't have anything more to do with it after that, and I
needn't say I shall keep my mouth shut about it."

Colonel Eldridge showed his relief. "I didn't think you'd lift the
weight off my mind as readily as that," he said, smiling at Fred. "I'm
very deeply grateful to you. Poor Hugo! It's the last trouble we shall
have from him, I hope. It's odd, you know, that it doesn't make me love
the boy less. It's as if he'd come to me himself and asked me to get him
out of a mess. I should have wanted to keep it to myself then. I don't
mind telling you, as you've been so kind, that there was one trouble I
had to deal with that looked bad against him, and this last claim might
have turned out to have some connection with that. He had got in with a
wild lot--I dare say most of them are killed now, poor boys! It's right
to keep their faults to oneself, if it's possible. I'm glad I can settle
this matter promptly, and get it out of the way--thanks to you. I'm very
grateful to you, Fred."

He shook hands with him, and Fred left him, feeling rather ashamed of
himself.




CHAPTER XXI

PERSHORE CASTLE


What was Norman doing? He did not come to the Hall on that day, nor on
the next, and it was not until the third day that Pamela heard he had
gone away the afternoon before. The close intercourse between the Hall
and the Grange was lessening. Lady Eldridge had been left alone at the
Grange, and she had not proposed herself to dine at the Hall, or asked
any of them to keep her company. Pamela felt unhappy about it all. They
seemed to be drifting apart, and nobody was doing anything to prevent
it. If Fred was right about Norman, he was even acting in such a way as
to make the breach wider. She had decided to say something to him about
the inquiries he had been making, but he had kept away from her. That
was very unlike him, and it was not in the bargain he had made with her.
They two were to ignore the quarrel altogether, and be just as they had
been before. He was not ignoring the quarrel, but apparently taking a
hand in it, and he had gone away without a word to her, which she could
not remember his ever having done. Perhaps he was annoyed with her for
having admitted Fred into so much intimacy. Well, she had her own
reasons for that, and to stand aloof from her himself wasn't the way to
recommend his opinion to her. It was rather a relief to her that Fred
had also gone away for a couple of days, for she had not decided yet
what she should do with the information he had brought her, and she had
no inclination to discuss her course of action with him.

She went over to the Grange in the morning to see her aunt. She still
had faith in her, and knew from her mother how troubled she was about
the estrangement. But she had not talked with her about it herself. She
thought she might, this morning, if she were given a chance.

But Lady Eldridge did not give her a chance. She was in her pretty room,
busy with a water-colour drawing of flowers. She was pleased to see Pam,
and kept her to lunch with her. They played the piano together and sang,
and cut flowers from the garden and arranged them. It was just such a
quiet happy morning as Pam had often spent with her, except that it was
not very happy. There was the shadow over both of them. Pamela could see
that her aunt was sad about it, but also that she did not want it
mentioned. The terms they were on did not permit of her breaking through
the implied prohibition unless she had had a firmly fixed purpose in
doing so. But no purpose was yet fixed in her.

She learnt that Norman was coming back the next day, bringing two
Cambridge friends with him, who were going to stay for a fortnight and
read hard; also that her uncle was not coming down for the week-end. It
was the third he had missed in a few weeks, and it was the time of year
when he generally stayed at Hayslope altogether. It looked as if he were
keeping away on purpose, and she thought that her aunt had mentioned
his not being expected as an intimation that nobody need stay away from
the Grange because of him. It was a sad pass for them to have come to,
and Pamela was not encouraged, as she walked home, by the thought that
her aunt seemed to accept it, though not without distress.

The next day Colonel and Mrs. Eldridge, Pamela and Judith went over to
lunch at Pershore Castle. There was a niece staying in the house, for
whom the society of other young girls was desired. Pamela found her
uninteresting. She was just a niece--of the sort who is to be found in
most country houses, and unless deflected by matrimony develops in
course of time into a cousin, of the sort who is to be found in most
country houses. Some bright life was wanted for the benefit of the
niece, who was bright herself in a niece-like way, and indeed seemed to
possess all the attributes and attainments of a country-house niecehood.

They lunched in a vaulted stone hall, decorated with armour and ancient
weapons, but Lord and Lady Crowborough, though both descended from
ancestors who might have worn the armour and wielded the weapons, made
it appear rather commonplace. Lord Crowborough was genial, and rather
heavily playful with the girls, and especially with the niece, who
responded to him in the way required, and Lady Crowborough, who had
begun by being stately, soon thawed into almost profuse friendship
towards Colonel Eldridge on her right and Judith on her left. Horsham
sat next to Judith, who was inclined to be silent. Pam was on the other
side of the table, next to the niece, and his eyes were frequently
attracted to her. He might possibly have told the niece how it was with
him, for she made efforts to include them both in conversation. But it
is more likely that, guided by some subtle instinct, she was, unknown to
herself, preparing for the years of cousinship ahead, when Horsham would
sit where his father sat now, and his wife, whoever she might be, would
invite her to pay long visits to them.

She took Judith off somewhere after lunch, and left Pamela with Horsham.
This was not to Pamela's liking, but she soon discovered that it was to
his. She did not pay much attention to his conversation, feeling a
trifle drowsy after the half glass of Moselle which Lord Crowborough had
insisted upon her drinking, until she woke up to the fact that he was
endeavouring in a tentative and rather clumsy way to make love to her.
She was inclined to be flattered, because she had now made up her mind
that he liked Judith better than he liked her, though he might not be
fully aware of it yet himself. But she did not want to be made love to
for the moment, however tentatively. It was too hot, for one thing, and
even half a glass of Moselle induces a disinclination to mental effort
when your preference in fluids is for plain water.

She staved off the pressure for a time by asking him exactly how far he
thought it was from Hayslope to Pershore, and expressing doubt at his
answer. If she had thought of it she would have asked him to fetch a
map, and he would have done so willingly and proved that he was right.
But he ended that discussion by saying: "Whatever the distance is, I
wish it was less. Then I should see you oftener."

This was no longer tentative, though it might be lacking in finesse. It
was too much trouble to fence with it, only to have it pressed home.
"Oh, my dear old Jim," she said, "I don't want you to say that sort of
thing. Let's talk sensibly, if we must talk. But to tell you the truth,
I feel rather sleepy. Couldn't we both drop off for a few minutes? These
chairs are very comfortable."

Horsham was sitting up in his. They were on a terrace edged with a
battlemented wall, from which there was a fine spreading view of the
country that this ancient castle had once dominated. Men at arms had
paced up and down the flags upon which the wicker chairs and tables were
now so invitingly displayed, and if a fair lady had ever been wooed
there by the inheritor of all the power and wealth that had been
represented by Pershore Castle, it would have been in very different
terms from those now being used by his descendant.

Nevertheless, Lord Horsham possessed, in addition to his quite modern
tastes, habits and appearance, some sense, not to be confounded with
vanity, of the dignities he had inherited, or would inherit, and a
certain direct simplicity of purpose such as had probably had a good
deal to do with advancing his ancestors to the summit of their desires.
He passed over completely Pamela's very modern expression of humour, and
said: "I hadn't thought of saying anything to you now because it's just
a chance that we are here alone, and I don't know how much time there'll
be. But there's no sense in keeping back what's there, and I know my
own mind by this time. It's quite simple. You're the only girl I've ever
seen that I should like to marry--I don't mean yet; but is there any
chance of it?"

This had been said, not altogether without intimations of nervousness,
but with a weight that forbade the response of raillery. Pamela
corrected herself, and replied: "I'm afraid not, Jim. I like you very
much indeed. I always have and I always shall; but I don't want to marry
you."

"I suppose you mean that you don't love me."

"Well--I suppose I do; at least not in that way."

"I didn't think you did, you know," he said, not showing nervousness
now. "But don't you think it would come? I don't know much about how
these things work, because I've never gone about trying to fall in love,
as some fellows seem to do. But I did read in a book somewhere that
women often fell in love with men after they were married, though men
didn't."

Pamela allowed herself some relaxation in her attitude of seriousness
and laughed. "I don't think it does to go by books in that sort of
thing," she said. "Aren't you making a mistake in your feelings about
me, Jim? I know you like me, and I'm very glad you do. I like you too.
But we don't seem to be exactly cut out for one another. Really, you get
on much better with Judith than you do with me. There's much more in
common between you."

"Oh, I know what you think about me and Judith," he said, surprisingly.
"I do get on very well with Judith, but it isn't the same thing at all.
You've often sent me off with Judith when I've wanted to be with you,
and I've gone because I didn't want to worry you, before I'd said what
I've said just now, which I've been meaning to say for some time. It's
you I love, not Judith."

This touched her a little. "I'm awfully grateful to you, Jim," she said.
"But I can't say what you want. And I'm still not sure that you really
do want it. Perhaps I ought not to say it--but we are such good friends,
aren't we? And as we've mentioned Judith--I'm sure _she_ has no idea of
such a thing, and of course she and I have never talked about you in
that way--I really do believe that you like her much better than you
think you do. She's a darling, and ever so much prettier than I am, and
much more suited to you too. If you could once get me out of your head!"

He listened gravely, and seemed to be weighing what she said. "I've
never thought about Judith in that way at all," he said. "She's too
young for one thing."

"Oh, yes," she said hurriedly, blushing a little. "Perhaps it's rather
horrid of me to talk of her like that. And of course I don't mean now.
You're quite young too--not old enough to want to be married yet."

"I shouldn't _aim_ at getting married yet," he confessed, "in the
ordinary way, perhaps not for a few years. But there's no reason against
it. When I've left Oxford, which will be in another year, I shall be
settling down to work, and it has lately seemed to me that I could work
much better if I was married--to somebody I love, as I love you, who
would help me in everything I did."

"Dear old Jim," she said affectionately. "Somehow, I think you've got
hold of the right idea of marriage. With the right girl you would be
happy, and I think you would make her happy too. But I'm sure _I'm_ not
the right girl for you. We'll go on being friends, though, all the
same."

He heaved a sigh. "Well, I can see it's no good going on about it," he
said. "All the same, I shan't give up the idea. I suppose there's nobody
else you do want to marry, is there?"

"No," she said shortly.

"Well, then, I shall ask you again--when I've left Oxford, and am ready
to start. Until then, I shan't bother you--not at all, and I shall be
glad to go on being friends, as you say you will be. You won't tell
anyone what I've asked you, will you?"

She hesitated. "I'd rather you didn't tell Norman," he said. "I like
Norman, and I don't mind his chaff a bit. But I'd rather not be chaffed
about this, because I feel seriously about it."

"No, Jim, I won't," she said. "I won't tell anybody until you say that I
may."

Lady Crowborough and Mrs. Eldridge had retired together after luncheon,
into an upstairs drawing-room, which had a still finer view of the
surrounding dappled country than the terrace below.

Mrs. Eldridge was in a mood slightly mischievous. She had seen Lady
Crowborough thaw towards her husband, whom she had probably designed to
keep at arm's length. She had not yet thawed towards herself, and this
retirement to a room not often used, instead of to one with a more
intimate significance, seemed to mean that she would be treated with all
courtesy and consideration due to her, but not admitted to any
heart-felt intercourse.

She talked politely, on the surface of things, and Lady Crowborough
responded in the same tone, and as if this was exactly what she wished.
She even appeared to be taking the stand of a great, but still affable,
lady towards a country neighbour of less exalted position, which Mrs.
Eldridge encouraged by due submission. But presently she seemed to be
getting uneasy at the absence of the intimacy that had existed for years
between her and this particular neighbour, and to be inviting a change
in the tone of the conversation. Mrs. Eldridge did not respond to the
invitation, but became rather more colourlessly polite than before.

"I always think that you have such lovely views from here," she said,
looking out of the window. "We have beautiful views from some of our
windows at Hayslope--not all--and the Castle shows up so well from
there. But of course you can't live in it and have it to look at too."

"No," Lady Crowborough agreed, and added with a smile, as of one who was
saying something rather clever: "Sometimes I wish we had it to look at
instead of to live in. There seems no end to the expenses of living in a
house as large as this, even when you live as simply as we do.
_Everything_ has gone up since the war. _Everything._ Don't you find it
so?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Eldridge. "In our small way we do."

"Even clothes," said Lady Crowborough. "I'm really glad not to be in
London so much as we used to be. In the country one can wear old
clothes, and it doesn't matter."

"It wouldn't matter, of course, what _you_ wore," said Mrs. Eldridge,
and wished Pamela had been there to hear the way she said it. "In our
position we have to be more careful. I find it difficult to dress myself
and the girls nicely without spending too much on it."

"Oh, but you always look so _beautifully_ dressed," said Lady
Crowborough. "And as for girls, I was only thinking at lunch how
perfectly charming they looked. They really are the _sweetest_ looking
girls, both of them; and so clever and taking too. Of course I always
admired them as little girls; but pretty little girls don't always grow
up so pretty. Both Pamela and Judith have. I'm not sure that Judith
won't be even prettier than Pamela by and by."

"Yes, I think they are pretty, both of them," said Mrs. Eldridge
judicially. "And they are looking their best to-day. Excitement always
improves young girls, and they have been so looking forward to coming
here, ever since we had your kind note."

Her artistic sense reproached her for having gone perhaps a trifle too
far, but Lady Crowborough by now was extremely anxious to cast away the
tiresome impediments of reserve. "Oh, you must bring them over more
often," she said, "especially now we have my niece staying with us. I
was saying to my husband only yesterday, we don't see _half_ enough of
the Eldridges, and we've always been such close friends. There was a
little trouble, I know, between my husband and yours, but that's all
over now, and it never affected us, did it? Couldn't we arrange a little
picnic together somewhere--just ourselves and your children? I should
like Patricia to know Alice and Isabelle. They're not so pretty as
Pamela and Judith, but they _are_ pretty, and they're such clever and
amusing children. I often wish I had a daughter of my own. I think
you're lucky in having four of them."

Mrs. Eldridge allowed herself to relax. "Four daughters are rather a
responsibility in these days," she said. "We couldn't do without one of
ours, even Alice and Isabelle, who are perfectly hideous, but darlings
all the same. Still, it's far less anxiety to have an only son, as you
have; especially when he's so well-behaved, as Horsham."

Lady Crowborough felt the change of atmosphere, and all her responsive
petals unfolded to it. "I don't mind saying to such an old friend as
you," she said confidentially, "that we were a little afraid of
Horsham's becoming rather wild at one time. But that's all over. He is
taking life quite seriously now, though I'm glad to say that it doesn't
prevent his being bright and gay in a way that a young man ought to be."

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Mrs. Eldridge, and again wished that Pamela were
there to hear her--or if not Pamela, _somebody_ who could appreciate
her.

"I should like Horsham to marry early and settle down," said Lady
Crowborough. "I don't approve of very early marriages as a rule, but in
his case I think it would turn out well."

"I'm sure he would make a good husband," said Mrs. Eldridge. "His wife
would never have a moment's anxiety about him."

"No, I don't think she would. And do you know, dear Mrs. Eldridge, I've
a fancy in my head that he is thinking about it already."

"Really? That's very interesting. Is it your niece? She seems a very
nice girl."

"Oh, no. Patricia and he get on very well together, but there's never
likely to be anything of that sort between them. Patricia is going in
for music; she has a very pretty little voice--you must hear her
sing--and though she _needn't_ do anything, you never know with a girl,
in these days. No, it isn't Patricia, dear. I wonder you haven't seen
something yourself; you must look much nearer home."

"One of _my_ girls?" she laughed, naturally. "Which one?" she asked.

"Why, Pamela, of course. Judith is hardly grown up yet."

"And Alice and Isabelle are too ugly, besides being still less grown up.
Well, he does like coming over to us, and we're always very pleased to
see him. But really, I don't think it has got as far as that yet. If it
had I shouldn't have asked which of the girls you suspected. He seems to
like them both equally--all four equally, I might almost say. If it
_were_ Pamela, should you think she was quite good enough for him?"

The artistic conscience approved of this question, as carrying over the
earlier tone of the conversation into the later. But Lady Crowborough
had quite done with that earlier tone. "Oh, my dear!" she said in
expostulation. "We're not _worldly_. You ought to know us better than
that by this time. Besides, Pamela might marry anybody. _You're_ not
worldly either, I'm sure; but you would expect her to make what is
called a good match, I should think. Besides--_your_ daughter!"

Mrs. Eldridge forgave her everything. "It would be rather nice," she
said. "I shall hate to lose Pam. It seems such a little time ago that
she was a tiny child. I suppose she's a little more to me than the
others, because she was the first girl. Still, I've got to lose her some
time or other, and I should love it if she didn't go _very_ far away. At
the same time, you know, I don't think it's going to happen."

Lady Crowborough looked disappointed. She had always shown herself very
much taken with Pamela, since her babyhood, and Mrs. Eldridge had known,
all the time she was amusing herself with her attempted stand-offishness
towards herself, that she had only to mention Pamela's name to turn it
into entire friendliness. "I _should_ like it," she said. "And I suppose
neither you nor Colonel Eldridge would object, would you?"

"No, of course we shouldn't. One has to think of the sort of marriage
one's daughters are likely to make, and we couldn't expect a more
satisfactory one, for any of our girls."

"Well, there is the position, of course," said Lady Crowborough, with a
slight return to her great lady manner. "But nobody would fill it better
than Pamela--as a _young_ wife, I mean."

A glint appeared in Mrs. Eldridge's eyes. "You would be able to teach
her what she didn't know," she said.

"Oh, yes. There's nothing so very difficult about it, if you're of the
right sort of birth to begin with. Well, there's no hurry. They're both
quite young still. But I _should_ like it to happen, I must say; and I'm
quite glad we've had a little talk about it. There'd be no harm in
trying to help it on, would there? If you and I are agreed, we might do
something, of course without showing our hands, you know."

"Yes; you said something about a picnic just now."

All Lady Crowborough's petals expanded to their utmost. "Ah!" she
exclaimed ecstatically. "A picnic. Now do let us arrange a picnic!"




CHAPTER XXII

A SUMMER AFTERNOON


Lord Crowborough and Colonel Eldridge had retired for their
after-luncheon cigars to another lower terrace overlooking the garden
slopes. Lord Crowborough felt it necessary to say something about Sir
William's elevation to the Order which he himself adorned, but was not
quite sure how his friend would take it. Vague rumours of a dispute had
reached Pershore Castle, though nothing was known there as to the
grounds of it. Perhaps Edmund Eldridge objected to his brother being
elevated above himself. His prejudices were not always reasonable.

"I'm sure William will be very useful to us," said Lord Crowborough,
expansively. "He's made an extraordinary success of everything he has
done so far. A very capable fellow, William! We've plenty of room for
men like him. A man of family too! So many of the people they send to us
don't know who their grandfathers were."

"Or else they do know, and keep it dark."

Lord Crowborough laughed appreciatively. "That's very good," he said.
"Very good indeed! I must remember that. Or else they do know, and keep
it dark. Yes, you've just about hit it. There was a fellow I met a short
time ago--I forget his name, which I'd never heard of, or what he called
himself--impossible to keep all these new titles in your head--but he
told me himself that his grandfather had served behind the counter of a
grocer's shop. Well, _he_ didn't keep it dark, to do him justice, and I
think they'd only made him a baronet, now I come to think of it, and not
a peer. But 'pon my word with half of 'em it's just paying down money,
and up they go. Hardly any pretence of having _done_ anything to deserve
it. Of course William _has_ made himself useful. Nothing to complain of
there."

"They wanted him either in the Lords or the Commons, as I understand.
There's no question of _his_ buying a title."

"Eh? Oh, no! Besides, such things aren't done. Nobody really _buys_ a
title. There's always _some_ reason for it. With him there's a good
one."

"Yes, but-- People aren't saying that he has paid money for it, are
they?"

"Eh? Oh, I dare say he made a handsome subscription to Party funds, you
know. He can afford it. He's a rich fellow, William. _That_ wouldn't be
buying his title."

"It wouldn't be far off. Is it the general opinion that he has done
that?"

"General opinion? My dear fellow, what does general opinion matter? If
he's told you definitely that he hasn't--!"

"Oh, he hasn't told me anything about it. I haven't seen him for a
month."

"Eh? I'm sorry to hear that, Edmund. I did hear something about you
having fallen out. I hope it's nothing serious. You've always been such
good friends, you and William. You're not annoyed about his peerage,
are you?"

"No. Why should I be annoyed about it? I should be if I thought he'd
bought it--directly or indirectly--as you seem to hint. But I don't
think he would do that."

"Eh? No, I dare say not. I don't know anything about it. What are you
going to do about shooting this year? You haven't preserved at all since
the war, have you?"

"No. William wanted to. We've run the shooting together for some years,
you know. He was ready to pay to get it all going again, but I didn't
care about that, and I can't afford to pay my share now. There'll be
enough birds for a few days now and then, which is all I want."

"Ah, then I suppose that's why William is going off to Suffolk."

"Going off to Suffolk?"

"You didn't know? I thought perhaps that might have had something to do
with your falling out with him--cutting himself loose from Hayslope, now
that he's more interested in it--or ought to be."

"What we've fallen out about is-- But I don't want to go into it; it's a
private affair. I've told you that I haven't seen him for weeks, and he
hasn't been here as much as usual. I don't know anything about his
movements."

"Well, it came to me in rather a roundabout way, though as it happens I
can vouch for it as far as it goes. I don't know whether I'm letting out
any secrets; but a man I dined with at Brooks's the other night,
talking about how the old estates were getting into the hands of--I
mean, he happened to mention a place in Suffolk that belonged to a
relation of his, and I understood that William was in negotiation for
it. Of course I said I knew him, and he'd be all right as a neighbour;
but I said that he had a place here, and a property coming to him by and
by, and I was surprised to hear that he was thinking of buying another
one. However, he assured me that it was so, but perhaps he was mistaken.
He certainly said that William had been down to see the place, because
his cousin had told him so. Nevill Goring it was--no harm in mentioning
his name. I can't remember who he said his cousin was, or the name of
the place, though he did mention them both, and I understood him to say
it was practically fixed up. You see William is _known_. People talk
about him now, and if he does anything it's known about; often gets into
the papers too."

"Yes, I suppose so. It's difficult to believe all the same, because he
would hardly buy a big place without consulting his wife, and she's been
down here for the last two or three weeks, without going away. We've
seen her constantly, and she's never mentioned such a thing."

"Oh, you still see her?"

"Yes. There's no quarrel with her! There'd be no quarrel with William if
he were what he used to be. However, I don't want to talk about it.
He'll go his own way, I suppose. If it's really true that he's thinking
of buying another place, I suppose his way and mine will diverge more
than ever."

"Well now, my dear Edmund, can't I do something about it? You're both
friends of mine. You're more my friend than William is, but still you're
both friends, of very long standing. I don't _like_ to see you at
loggerheads, and I don't see any reason for it. Besides, it's an
exceptionally bad thing in this case, because there's your property,
very much reduced now I'm sure, like everybody's property, and there's
William with a great deal of money--really a _great_ deal of money he
must have made, or he wouldn't have been able to--well, he wouldn't be
able to buy another big landed property, as apparently he's thinking of
doing. You _ought_ to be working in together, you two, not drifting
apart like this."

"Yes; I know." He spoke rather sadly. "But as for William's money, I'm
sick of his money, Crowborough. It seems to stand for everything. What
we've actually quarrelled about is a very small thing. I know that, and
I'm not going over it with you. No, you can't do anything; thank you,
all the same. It began by William using his money in what I thought was
an unjustifiable way. All the way through, at Hayslope, there am I
adjusting things to the new conditions, as all landowners must nowadays,
spending my life there, and doing more work than I've ever had to do for
myself; and there's William just coming down now and then, and
complicating everything with his money, throwing labour out of gear, not
even consulting me in matters where I ought to be consulted, doing just
what he pleases. He gets a peerage, and you tell me that the general
idea is that _that's_ owing to his money. He's quarrelled with me, so
Hayslope isn't agreeable to him any longer, I suppose, and he's got
enough money to go and buy another big place, just to get away from it,
though it will all be his some day. His money has altered William
entirely. Now he's Lord Eldridge, and I'm just a nobody of a poor
country gentleman, hard hit by the war. I don't mind that--not for
myself, though I do for my wife and children; but you'd think he
wouldn't want to be always ramming it down my throat--his elder brother,
and the head of his family, in spite of his new peerage. If I were
content to sit down and take his charity, I dare say we should get on
very well together. I don't know how much money he has, but I dare say
he could make me perfectly comfortable at Hayslope without feeling it.
But I'm not taking his charity, or his patronage either. It isn't in me
to do it, not even for the sake of my family, and I'd swallow a good
deal for them to have what they ought to have."

Lord Crowborough's face had become serious during this speech. "Well, I
see how it is, Edmund," he said. "I see very plainly how it is; because
I've always felt about William--though I've never said so--that with all
his generosity--and I think there's no doubt he's a generous man; in
fact I know he is--he's not quite--how shall I put it?--one of our sort.
I don't know why, I'm sure, because he is by birth, and upbringing too.
I suppose he's what they call a throwback. The fact is I don't think he
could have made all that money, and still be making it, I suppose, if he
weren't different--different altogether. The money-makers are a type
apart, and they may make him a peer, and he may be a big
landowner--anything you please--but the more he gets with that swim the
more he resembles their type. That's what you're up against, at the
bottom of it all, quarrel or no quarrel; and of course you're not at
home with that type. But now, when you've said that, can't you make
allowances? After all, he's your brother, and you've been good friends
all your lives. Let me have a talk to William. Let me tell him that
_you_ don't want to quarrel, and--"

"Oh, you can do that if you like. I've no objection. But you've put it
very plainly. He's approximating more and more to type. There's not much
chance, I think, of our hitting it off again, as we used to. I stand
where I did, and he's altered. Still, I agree that there's no need to
quarrel with a man just because he isn't one's own sort. If you can get
it on to those lines there may be a way out. I did stipulate that he
should do something that I think he ought to have done of his own
accord. He would have done it without question a year or two ago. But I
don't care whether he does it or not now. It's gone beyond that. I shall
never think of him again as I used to because he's not the same man. But
there's no reason why we should live at daggers drawn--especially if
he's going to withdraw from Hayslope. That's about the last straw. But
I'm not going to make a fuss about it, or about anything else that he
does. He can go his way, and I'll go mine. We're better apart now."

"If you feel like that about him--! Well, I'll see him and talk to him.
I don't think it's quite as bad as you think, Edmund. The fact is he's
made a big position for himself in the world, and--"

"Oh, yes, I know all that. So does he. That's the root of the trouble."

The conversation was broken at that point by the incursion of several
young people whose activities and sociabilities for the afternoon would
radiate from this garden terrace. Norman Eldridge was among them, and
with him were the two young men whom he had invited to Hayslope. These
he had already presented to Pamela, and they were now on either side of
her, while Horsham thus dispossessed, was making himself agreeable to
other guests.

The hot afternoon wore on to the coolness of evening. There was
perpetual activity of white-clad youthful figures on the tennis courts;
some inspection--mostly in couples--of the ancient Castle, which stood
massive and grim overlooking the gay expanse of garden that surrounded
it, and as if it would never quite adapt itself to its present peaceful
and defenceless state; appreciation of garden beauties--also mostly in
couples; general conversation from groups overlooking the courts; play
of teacups on the terrace; and a general atmosphere of untroubled
youthful enjoyment, tampered by the less vociferous contentment of the
elders who watched or took some share in it.

But youth is seldom altogether untroubled, even when in the mass it
appears most delightfully free from care. Pamela, for instance, might
have forgotten, for the happy afternoon, the cloud that hung over her
home, as her parents whom it most concerned seemed to be doing; the
experience of a first proposal had not greatly affected her, though
probably when she came to think it over alone it would seem more
important than it did now. But she was unhappy about Norman.

Was he avoiding her? The idea came to her in the course of the
afternoon, and grew. She was not entirely guiltless of a wish to avoid
him, at first, or at least to appear to be doing so. She was not quite
pleased with him, but her displeasure would melt if he sought her out,
as he might be expected to do, and proved to her that she had nothing
over which to disturb herself. He had more than one opportunity of
securing a word or two with her apart. Almost invariably he had done so
on such occasions as this, if only to share with her some laughing
appreciation of the company in which they found themselves. He had
produced for her inspection the first instalment of his promised supply
of young men; the grin with which he had introduced them to her had
shown that their conversation on that subject was in his mind, and he
must have wanted to hear her observations, and to make some of his own.
She was quite ready to oblige him, as a stepping-stone to an exchange of
views upon a subject more serious, for her slight resentment against him
soon disappeared in face of his evident wish to maintain the usual
friendly relations. He did accompany her and one of his friends, who had
expressed a desire to see the Castle--in Pamela's company--on a round of
inspection, and was quite friendly and amusing. But when she was ready
to make it easy for him to talk to her alone, he did not give her the
opportunity, and by and by she became sure that he did not want to talk
to her alone. Then she retired into her shell, and showed him that she
was displeased with him. He didn't seem to mind that either, and
pretended not to notice it. He did his best to make her laugh, and it
was unfortunate that once at least he succeeded. This made her angry
with herself, and she withdrew from the group which Norman was so
successful in entertaining. One of his friends--the one who had
inspected the Castle with them--withdrew with her, but he found that the
wind had changed and the sun of her amiability no longer shone on him.
She detached herself and went straight up to where Fred Comfrey was
engaged in conversation with the Pershore niece, and presently Norman
had the felicity of seeing her walk off with him towards the retirement
of groves unseen. Though carefully refraining from a look in his
direction, she was fully aware of the annoyance he immediately showed,
and was glad of it.

When she had got Fred alone she was inclined to be annoyed with herself
for having been forced to that means of asserting herself, and wished
she had chosen Horsham for a tête-à-tête. Her feelings were warm towards
Horsham, who had behaved well under his rejection, and she had seen him
eyeing her rather wistfully as she and Fred had passed him. Still,
Norman would not have disliked that as much as this; and this needn't
last long. Fred did not appear to such advantage here as at home at
Hayslope, where his status was well understood and need not be taken
into account. He did not seem to belong of right to the company
assembled. He had, in fact, bicycled over to Pershore Rectory, with the
faint hope that the Rector's daughters, whom he knew slightly, might be
going to the Castle, where he knew that Pamela was to spend the
afternoon, and would take him with them. His hopes had been fulfilled.
The Rector's daughters were "getting on," and could neither send away a
young man reported to be eligible on the plea of an engagement, or give
up their afternoon's pleasure. But he was inclined to wish that his plan
had not succeeded. He had been quite well received, but he was not in
flannels and could not play tennis; so that he never merged with the
rest, and there was a sort of air of apology about him which did not
show him up to advantage. He had never been to Pershore Castle before,
and was apologetic about that, to Pamela, explaining rather anxiously
exactly how he came to be there, and giving her the very impression
which his explanations were intended to remove--that he had got himself
in there on her account. This did not please her at all; nor did his way
of taking her invitation to a stroll apart. She divined a difference in
his attitude towards her, though there was nothing in his speech at
which she could take offence. Her invitation was made to appear a
special mark of favour, and yet one to which he seemed to think he had
some right. For the first time in her intercourse with him she was
forced to take into account his admiration of her, which she had
hitherto been able to set aside.

She asked him, rather shortly, what it was that her father had talked to
him about, for she had not seen him since that afternoon. To her
surprise he said that it had nothing to do with the quarrel, and gave
her to understand that there were subjects which men discussed between
themselves and kept to themselves. He said this in a half-jocular
manner, not in the best of taste, and she had an uneasy suspicion that
she herself might have been the subject of their conversation, but
immediately rejected it. Fred seemed, anyhow, to be less in awe of her
father than he had shown himself until now, and she did not like that,
for she thought that deference was due from him. She was in fact, coming
very quickly round to Norman's stated opinion of Fred--that he might
have made a success of his job, whatever it was, and done well in the
war, but he was an outsider all the same. She had labelled this view as
snobbery, and Norman had said: "All right, then, I'm a snob. Let's leave
it at that."

Perhaps Fred, not responsive to fine shades, but sharpened by his
feeling for her, and under the uneasy influence of a false shame at
being where he was, divined that he was losing ground in her estimation,
for he suddenly plumped out; "Well, this is the last of holidays for me.
I'm off to London to get into harness again."

That changed the current of her thoughts about him. As a bold adventurer
on the sea of life he was worthy of respect, and good wishes. She gave
him her good wishes, and he stoically refrained from asking anything
else of her, though he would have given a good deal for some word of
regret that he was leaving so soon, or of desire for his return. Still,
she was charmingly friendly again, and he took leave of her, and very
soon afterwards of Pershore Castle, thinking that his appearance there
had not turned out so badly after all. He had actually made no plans to
go to London, or anywhere else, in the immediate future; his
announcement of departure had been an inspiration of the moment. He
would never get any further with her, hanging about Hayslope. Her tone
towards him had shown him that plainly. He was a fool to have counted a
little upon that surprising and gratifying invitation of hers to a few
minutes of intimacy in the middle of a crowd, and to have tried to
advance himself a step. And yet-- What had it meant but that she was
beginning to want him--a little, sometimes--as he wanted her, always.
She might not know it, and she had certainly not seemed to want him very
much when she had got him apart; but the stirring of her heart towards
him, surely it had begun! He would go away, as soon as possible, and
plunge into work, and every now and then, at intervals not too close, he
would come back, and tell her of what he had been doing. She would miss
him. Would she miss him? He hoped so; he thought so. He was not an
altogether unhappy young man as he pedalled himself back to Hayslope.

But he had left behind him an unhappy young woman. Norman was furious
with Pamela now, wouldn't look at her, much less speak to her. And she
was without the conviction to uphold her that she had done right. Her
eyes had been opened. She was ashamed of herself for having given Fred
that mark of confidence. Norman was right. He wasn't of their sort, and
it didn't do to go outside the pale for your friends. Neither of those
young men whom Norman had introduced to her would have made her feel
uncomfortable, as Fred had, if she had given them an ordinary mark of
friendship. Pamela had burnt her fingers, for she had wanted Norman to
take her invitation to Fred as rather more than an ordinary mark of
friendship. He had done so, and she was not pleased with herself, nor
with him, nor with Fred. But of course she wasn't going to show him
that. She took no more notice of him for the rest of the afternoon than
he did of her, but she made herself particularly agreeable to the more
coming-on of his two friends. But this wasn't a great success either,
for the friend told Norman that evening, with the attractive candour of
a friend, that he thought his cousin was a peach, but somewhat hectic in
her mirth, which was exactly what Pamela wasn't as a general rule.

Horsham happened to be in Judith's company when Pamela went away with
Fred. He found Judith's company soothing after the laceration of spirit
he had lately undergone. He had conscientiously examined himself upon
Pamela's statement to him about Judith, trying to look at her with the
eyes that had been attributed to him, just to see if there was anything
in it, as yet unknown to himself. Certainly she was a very pretty girl,
and now he came to look at her more closely not really a child any
longer. It would not be at all surprising if some fellow fell in love
with her, pretty soon. But she did not arouse in him the feelings that
Pamela did. She was a delightful companion, and as a sister, if he ever
had the luck to marry Pamela, she would be very dear to him--he felt
sure of that. Yes, in a way he really loved her already, but not in that
way at all. He was sure of that also, and being sure of it allowed
himself to take his usual pleasure in her society, honest fellow that he
was, without any misgivings of danger.

"I say," he said, "I don't much care for that fellow Comfrey. Pamela
doesn't like him particularly, does she?"

"I don't know," said Judith. "I don't."

"You don't? Why?"

"I don't know why," said Judith, "but I don't," which was a thoroughly
Judithian speech.

"Strikes me as rather a pushing sort of fellow," said Horsham. "I
shouldn't have thought Pamela would have taken up with a fellow like
that."

"How high is that tower?" asked Judith. They were sitting on the lawn in
view of the Castle, looming above them.

Horsham told her. She seemed really to want to know. He thought rather
sadly that Pamela had not really wanted to know how far it was from
Hayslope to Pershore. Judith was sometimes more interesting to talk to
than Pamela, or at least she was sometimes more easy to talk to. But
perhaps that was because she was not so clever as Pamela. He knew _he_
wasn't. But he had a good brain and was improving it all the time. He
told Judith something about the course of study he was pursuing at
Oxford, but she was disappointing about that. "I hate learning things,"
she said; "at least I hate sitting down to learn something. I like
finding things out for myself."

"Well; that's the only way of finding them out, isn't it?--real stiff
things, I mean."

"I don't know. Perhaps it is. When did Napoleon die?"

Such a question from Pamela might have made Horsham suspect that he was
being chaffed. But Judith didn't chaff him in that way. He was obliged
to confess that he was uncertain of the exact date, but would look it up
for her if she wanted to know.

"I don't want to know the exact date," she said. "But the Battle of
Waterloo was in 1815, and I suppose he was getting on then. I didn't
know till the other day that his wife was still alive."

"His wife!"

"Well, widow, then. The Empress Eugènie was the wife of Napoleon, and
she's alive still, and lives in England."

Horsham did not laugh, or even smile at her. He felt a little shocked,
but would not have let her see it for anything. "Oh, she's the wife of
Napoleon the Third," he said. "The Napoleon we defeated at Waterloo was
Napoleon the First, you know."

"Oh, I see," said Judith hurriedly. "Yes; of course, I ought to have
known that. I'm glad I asked you, and not anybody else."

This little episode remained in Horsham's memory. He was rather
surprised that Judith's astonishing ignorance did not affect him more
disagreeably. But of course a young girl might very well be ignorant of
the course of modern history. He himself had not known the date of the
great Napoleon's death until he had looked it up afterwards. Her mistake
had had the contrary effect of making him feel rather tender towards
her. He quite understood that she was ashamed of it, and would have
hated to be laughed at because of it. She had known he wouldn't laugh at
her. That was rather touching. It was pleasant to be understood, and
trusted, in that way. Dear little Judith! If only Pamela would trust him
like that! Perhaps she would some day. He loved her very much, and that
must surely have some weight with her in time. They were a wonderful
pair, she and Judith. It wasn't often you found two girls, quite
different, as charming as those two. Oh, Pamela was worth waiting and
hoping for.




CHAPTER XXIII

APPROACHES


Lady Eldridge came over to the Hall the next morning. Mrs. Eldridge
received her with bright amiability. On the surface they were friends as
before, but the desire for one another's company was less. They had not
quarrelled and would not quarrel, but each of them knew now that the
other had espoused the quarrel, and that it was beyond their powers to
end it.

Lady Eldridge had brought news. William had taken a shooting in Suffolk,
and she was going to join him there immediately, to get ready for their
first party, to which, however, she had brought no invitation. "It has
all been rather sudden," she said with a smile. "But William is like
that. It is very good partridge country. He heard that the shoot was to
be let, and ran down to see about it. It seemed to be just what he
wanted, so he closed with them at once."

"Lord Crowborough told Edmund yesterday that he was buying a place in
Suffolk," said Mrs. Eldridge. "Well, my dear, it will be dreadful to
lose you, but under the circumstances at present I'm afraid we shouldn't
get much pleasure out of one another here. Perhaps it's the best thing.
Are you going to move your furniture there?"

"But William hasn't bought the place," said Lady Eldridge. "It is
extraordinary what tales get about. He has only taken it for the
season, furnished, of course. It's a very nice house, and his idea is
that we shall go there this winter when we are not in London. But there
is no idea of our giving up the Grange. I hope we shall be here next
summer, and that everything will be happy again between us."

"I hope it will be," said Mrs. Eldridge with a sigh; "and I wish we
didn't have to wait until next summer for it. Little things always seem
to be happening to put us farther apart, and nothing ever happens to
bring us closer together."

"There is one little thing that may help. William is sending Coombe up
to Eylsham. A head gardener is wanted there, and he has got him the
place. He won't come back here, even when our tenancy there ends."

So there was that trouble removed, but too late for it to have much
effect. Colonel Eldridge, when he heard of it, expressed a modified
satisfaction. "I'm glad to get the fellow out of the place," he said,
"though I think the mischief he may have done is at an end. People here
have taken his measure, and he doesn't seem to have turned anybody
against me. It has happened to suit William to clear him out of here; if
he had meant to satisfy me by doing it he'd have done it in a different
way."

He expressed some doubt, also, as to whether Lord Crowborough's story
wasn't true after all. "Eleanor hasn't seen him for a fortnight or
more," he said. "She only knows what he has written to her. We know that
the place _is_ on the market. Very likely he has taken it for a time to
see how it suits him; and if it does he will buy it. He hasn't told
Eleanor that yet. I don't know that I've any reason to complain about
it, if it is so. I suppose he wants landed property to support his new
title, and he wouldn't be content to wait for Hayslope. My life is
pretty well as good as his. At any rate there's no definite point in
dispute left now between us. There's no need for him to turn his back on
me any longer."

"Wouldn't he expect you to take the first step towards a reconciliation
now?"

"I dare say he would. But I'm not going to do it. What grounds should I
have to go on? There aren't any. At the same time, if _he_ puts out any
feelers, I shan't reject them. For one thing it is getting very tiresome
to have to arrange things that he and I are both concerned in through
lawyers, and absurdly expensive, too. Of course that doesn't matter to
him, but every penny matters to me now. There are all sorts of little
points that a few words between us would settle, and I've got to make a
formal business of correspondence with all of them. If he no longer has
any feeling for me as a brother, there's no reason for him to treat me
as an enemy."

He had not mentioned to his wife that Lord Crowborough was going to try
to put matters straight between him and his brother, but it was very
much in his mind. He was beginning to have an uneasy feeling that if he
had held himself a little less stiffly no estrangement need have
occurred. He had been right, he thought, in every point of their
dispute, and his brother wrong, but looking back upon it all there was
nothing that should have led to an actual state of enmity between them.
The results of that state were pressing hardly upon him. There was a
great deal of business in connection with the estate to which William
was now the next heir that had been made easy by their meeting so often
and being so of accord in what should be done. It had to be recognized
too that, in spite of his determination to carry out his own obligations
to the full, William had done much to grease the wheels. If he had never
allowed him to pay money that was not actually due from him, a
considerable saving had been made in his own expenditure by William's
ready, open-handed ways. He was not sure, either, that William had not
actually paid a good deal here and there that was not strictly due from
him. He seemed to have been clever in getting over objections on his
part, and making it all appear natural and business-like. You might say
what you pleased about money not mattering much to him, and about his
taking a pride in playing the bountiful; but it would be ungracious to
look upon that side only, and to ignore the undoubted generosity of his
dealings, and especially the impulse to cover it up. It was that
generosity which Colonel Eldridge was missing now, even more than the
tangible results of it, though the lack of them was making his days dark
and anxious. In fact, he was beginning to miss William, though he had
given Lord Crowborough to understand that he could do very well without
him for the future.

Lord Crowborough lost no time in putting his good intention to the
proof. He was seriously disturbed at the state of things revealed to him
by his old friend. He had not thought that the quarrel had gone nearly
so far nor so deep. In talking it over with Lady Crowborough, he
expressed himself doubtful about being able to do much to mend matters.
"William has put Edmund's back up," he said, "and I'm not altogether
surprised at it. Still, Edmund is ready to make friends if William gives
him a chance. At least, he is quite willing to meet him again; and if
they come together I expect they _will_ make friends."

"I think it is all very absurd," said Lady Crowborough. "I feel quite
sure that Colonel Eldridge is in the wrong from beginning to end, and I
very nearly told him so this afternoon."

"But, my dear, you didn't know anything about it this afternoon."

"Oh, yes, I did. I knew there was something amiss. It was as much as I
could do to be civil to Colonel Eldridge; he is so obstinate and
wrong-headed. She backs him up, too, though she pretends to be all
sweetness and reasonableness. I'm sorry for her though, for I'm afraid
they have very little money now, and are going through a bad time. I was
a good deal more friendly to her this afternoon than I felt like,
because of that; and I must keep in with her because of Pamela."

"Why because of Pamela?"

"Well, I hadn't meant to say anything to you yet, but I don't seem to be
able to keep anything to myself. Jim is in love with Pamela. She's a
very sweet girl, though her parents are rather tiresome. I don't see
any reason to object. Jim might marry somebody of higher rank or with
more money, but we're not worldly, as I told Mrs. Eldridge, and if he
has set his heart on Pamela I'm not sorry for it."

"You told Mrs. Eldridge? You talked that over together?"

"Well, and why not? Of course _she_ would like it. As she said, with
four daughters and two of them grown up, it was time to think about
marriage for them."

"Did she really say that?"

"Not in so many words, perhaps, but that was what she meant. You
wouldn't object to Jim marrying Pamela, would you?"

"No, I shouldn't object," said Lord Crowborough, after a pause of
consideration. "I think I should be rather glad. Pamela is a very
charming girl. But I doubt if there's anything in it all the same. I
happened to notice that Jim wasn't much with her this afternoon. He was
much more with little Judith, and they seemed to be getting on
extraordinarily well together. Oddly enough, it did cross my mind that
something might come out of that by and by."

"It's curious you should say so, because that is what Mrs. Eldridge
seemed to be hinting at. She never says anything straight out. However,
we shall see. She was very anxious that we should get up a picnic. I
think her idea was to help matters on, though she wouldn't have
acknowledged that. I shouldn't have taken to the suggestion if I had
seen any reason why matters shouldn't be helped on. I should be rather
disappointed if it is Judith and not Pamela. But we shall see. I shall
let Mrs. Eldridge have her picnic, and we shall see what comes of it.
Then we shall know what to do."

Lord Crowborough met Lord Eldridge in London by appointment. He went up
for the day, on purpose to do so. It was a little unfortunate that Lord
Eldridge's engagements prevented his accepting an invitation to lunch,
for a more leisured conversation in a mellower atmosphere than that of
his office in the City might have led to more satisfactory results.

For the mission was a failure. "I shan't take any further steps," said
Lord Eldridge; firmly. "It's very kind of you to want to bring us
together again, and as far as I'm concerned I'm not going to keep up a
feud. You can tell Edmund that, if you like. But it's he who has created
the feud, and if he wants it ended it's for him to make the advance.
I've done every mortal thing that he has wanted me to do, unreasonable
as well as reasonable, and it has been of no use. There's nothing more
left for me to do."

"Well, there was something--he didn't tell me what it was--that he
thought you might have done. But he said he didn't mind now whether you
did it or not."

"Yes, exactly. That's how it goes all the time. I don't wonder he didn't
tell you what it was. _I_ don't mind telling you. I was to dismiss my
head gardener, out of hand, at a word from him. I didn't see any reason
to do it, when I had looked into the complaint, which I did do. But I
have taken the man away from Hayslope, and got him another job, solely
and entirely to remove that cause of complaint. And now I'm told he
doesn't mind whether I do it or not. Why, he made it the final cause of
the split between us! He wouldn't come to my house again as long as that
man was there. I haven't seen him since, and really, Crowborough, I
don't want to see him. I don't know what has come over him, but there's
nothing one can do to placate him. I'm not going to take any more
trouble about it." He turned sharply round in his chair. "What the devil
_is_ it that he complains of?" he asked in a tone of strong irritation.
"I'm just what I've always been to him. We've always got on well
together up till now."

"Well, he says that you're _not_ just the same," said Lord Crowborough,
with weighty insistence. "And I'm not sure that you are, you know,
William. Of course you've got a deal more money than most of us, and
that seems to be complicating things at Hayslope."

"Complicating things! I'll tell you this, that Edmund will find things a
good deal more complicated without my money to help him along. He's got
no head for business, not even estate business, which he thinks he knows
all about. I don't think he has the least idea what a help I've been to
him over that. I've been rather keen that he shouldn't know. But now
that it will all be on his own shoulders I think he'll find his troubles
increasing on him pretty heavily."

"Well, do you want that, William? Do you want that?"

Lord Crowborough had scored there. "No, I don't want it," said Lord
Eldridge in a tone that was almost sulky. "At least, I don't want him
to be pushed up into a corner. I don't think it will do him any harm to
get some idea of what I've really done for him during these last few
years, all the same."

"I know how generous you have been, my dear fellow. I know that we were
never to mention what you did over that unpleasant business of Hugo's
with Horsham, but _I_ shall never forget it."

"I saved Edmund trouble and disgrace over that, didn't I? I'd have done
anything to prevent his knowing what a young scoundrel Hugo really was.
I was going to say, what a lot of thanks I get for it; but of course he
doesn't know. I haven't told you, because I haven't seen you since, that
I had a reminder of that business the other day. I tried to warn Edmund
of what might be coming, but he wouldn't even listen to me. Apparently
nothing _has_ happened yet, and I hope nothing will."

"What is it? I thought that was all over and done with."

"So did I. But do you remember young Barrett, who was one of them that
evening, and was killed at the same time as Hugo?"

"I remember his name."

"His mother wrote and asked me to go and see her. She thought Hugo was
my son, as it turned out, fortunately for Edmund, or he would have had
the story. She had found among his papers an I. O. U. of Hugo's for four
hundred pounds, and a statement written by himself of exactly what had
happened on that night. It was a pretty damaging indictment. Although I
had known it all through, it made me ashamed to read it."

"What kind of a woman can she be to want to show that to the boy's
father, after he had been killed?"

"Oh, I ought to have told you that she didn't show me the paper until
she knew that I wasn't his father. It was the I. O. U. that she wanted
to talk about. She's an emotional, I should say rather hysterical sort
of woman. It's possible she might have shown Edmund the paper, if he had
been there instead of me; but she hadn't meant to do so when she wrote.
She didn't know what to do about the I. O. U. She had thought of
destroying it, but couldn't make up her mind what to do. I offered to
settle it then and there, but she wouldn't let me. She has plenty of
money, and when it came to the point I think she was rather ashamed at
the idea of taking it. I suppose she really wanted the luxury of a
little fuss, and if she was going to behave generously about it, to let
it be known, at any rate to Hugo's people. I couldn't do anything with
her except that I think I made her understand that it wouldn't do her
son's name any good to have it known. So I suppose she'll keep quiet. I
tried to make her see that it would be a cruel thing, as you said just
now, to trouble Hugo's father. I told her that he didn't know the worst,
though I did, and you did, and that I had settled it, as far as it could
be settled. She seemed to accept it all, and to be glad that her mistake
had prevented her from doing something she might have regretted. But I
can't feel sure about her. He was her only son; she wants to keep him
alive in some way. I saw that she sent a subscription of a hundred
pounds to some charity, in his name, only a few days ago. You never know
where you are with a woman like that. I've done all that I can."

"Poor old Edmund! It would be a sad thing if he had to know about it
after all."

"Yes; I don't think it will happen. I don't in the least think it will
happen. She'll let me know if she wants the money. She practically
promised me that. I'm rather glad now that Edmund did prevent my warning
him about it. I had just come from her, and I felt doubtful as to what
she would do. I shouldn't have told him everything--only something that
would have broken the shock to him if it had come. But it's weeks ago
now. She's apparently decided not to do anything. I think the danger is
past."

"It looks like it; and I'm very glad of it. Poor Edmund! He clings to
that boy's memory, though I'm afraid he'd have given him nothing but
trouble if he'd lived. You've been very good, William, in keeping the
worst of it from him. You've done it even since you quarrelled with him.
Now look here--can't you carry it a bit further and make friends with
him again?"

"Oh, I'm quite ready to make friends with him if he wants it. I've told
you so. But as for taking the first step, which I suppose is what you
want me to do, I tell you I'm tired of taking first steps. When this
absurd dispute began, I put aside one offence after the other from him,
and acted on what I thought was beneath it all--I mean the very thing
you rely on--our always having got on well together as brothers and all
that. _He_ didn't rely on that. Every step I took was made the basis of
further offence. No, I'm not going out on that road again. If he wants
me he knows well enough how to get me."

"My dear fellow, I dare say you're in the right and he's in the
wrong--all the way through if you like. But it's a question of acting
generously."

"I've tried to do that. But when your generosity is thrown back in your
face time after time--! No, it's no good, Crowborough. I'm ready to put
it all aside and begin again; but I'm not going to make any more
advances."

With this Lord Crowborough had to be content. He made the most of it to
Colonel Eldridge. William was quite ready to return to their former
relations, but he was still sore about the way in which his efforts at
reconciliation had been rejected, as he considered. Couldn't Edmund
himself write something that would put it right? He felt sure that
William would respond.

"I'll think about it," said Colonel Eldridge. "I'm not going to do
anything in a hurry."

He thought about it very carefully. He wanted to have it over. William
had said he was ready to have it over; but did he really want it, in the
same way, or didn't he much care? His whole attitude now seemed to show
that he hardly cared at all. He was leaving Hayslope and all his
interests there, which had been much to him. Now, besides all the other
interests of his successful life, they counted for very little, and he,
his brother, was just part of them. If he were to put aside his
resentments, which still caused him acute annoyance when he remembered
their successive occasions, and to make some advance towards
reconciliation, wouldn't it be taken as just an indication that he had
found himself unable to do without William's assistance and was ready to
eat humble pie in order to get it again?

No, he couldn't do it. William would no doubt respond effusively. He
would pretend that nothing had ever happened, and behave with that
excessive brotherliness which he had always found it difficult to
respond to, though he had valued it as expressing the feeling which he
had also cherished. With the memory of all that would have to be ignored
still fresh in his mind, he knew that he could not meet that attitude
graciously--not for some time to come. It would be a false intimacy to
which he would be immediately invited; not false, perhaps, on William's
part, because with all his late offences endorsed, and the excitements
of his life taking up most of his attention, he would be relieved to be
able to give his impulses play; but certainly false on his part, who
must have time in which to get back to the old terms.

What he would do--and it would be a great concession--would be to write
directly to William upon some subject with which they had been dealing
through their lawyers. That would be a beginning, from which they could
gradually proceed to something more; and in time the past would be
forgotten. It was the only way. Neither of them would be climbing down,
and there would be no chance of still further misunderstandings, from a
correspondence about a dispute upon which they would never agree.

Yes, he would do that without delay. Perhaps the process towards
complete reconciliation would not be too protracted. His spirits rose
when he thought of that.




CHAPTER XXIV

ALMOST


They had just finished lunch at the Hall. Pamela was wondering rather
disconsolately what she should do with herself for the afternoon. The
times seemed out of gear. There was the Grange half a mile away, to
which she was accustomed to repair if there seemed to be nothing
particular to do at home. Aunt Eleanor was there. She had come over this
morning, but Pamela had not seen her, and she had made no suggestions
for meeting later in the day. Norman was there, with his two friends. He
might bring them over some time during the afternoon; she had half
expected that he would do so during the morning; but perhaps they had
been reading, as they called it. Eric Blundell, the one who had talked
to her most the afternoon before at Pershore Castle had told her that
they intended to read very hard during their stay at the Grange. Norman
had been excessively annoyed with her when she had last seen him, but
his annoyance seldom lasted long. He would surely want to have it out
with her! She would rather enjoy that. Anything to escape from this
deadly blight which seemed to be settling down on them all!

She had stepped out of the window of the dining-room after lunch, and
was standing there, when she saw Norman coming towards her from among
the trees. He was alone. He must have hurried over his lunch, and left
his friends upon some pretext. Perhaps he had done that so as to have it
out with her. She brightened, but did not go forward to meet him.

He waved his stick to her, in his usual manner, when he saw her, and
there was no sign of annoyance on his face as he approached. That was
one thing that was rather nice about Norman. If he ever lost his temper,
as he did occasionally, he recovered it very quickly.

"We're going off for a joy-ride," he called out, as he came up to her.
"I've come to fetch you."

"Who is going?" she asked, "and where?"

"Just we three bright young sparks, and you. We're going in Eric
Blundell's car. She's a flier, but she only holds four, sitting rather
snug, or we'd have asked Judy. He wants to go and see some cousins who
live at Medchester. It's about forty miles there and another forty back,
so we ought to start at once. Are you on?"

She was on; and soon they were walking down the wood together.

"I say, old girl," said Norman, as soon as they started, "I was rather
shirty with you yesterday, and I'm afraid I showed it. I'm sorry. You
won't have it up against me, will you?"

"You didn't like me taking notice of Fred Comfrey, I suppose."

"You've hit it. I always say you can see a thing as quick as anybody,
and I'll maintain that against all and sundry."

He seemed to be in high spirits. It was grateful to Pamela to find him
like that, and relieved some of her soreness. "Fred Comfrey is going
away this afternoon," she said. "He came up to say good-bye this
morning."

"Did he? Well, we must try to bear up under it. Is he coming back
to-morrow afternoon?"

"No, he isn't. He's going to London to start work again. So you won't
have to lose your temper any more because of him."

"No. That's such an advantage, isn't it? I hate losing my temper,
especially with you. It wastes such a lot of time."

"You're very foolish to have done it at all. You know I don't really
like him much; but I can't treat him rudely, just to please you."

Norman became a shade graver. "I said to myself that you couldn't really
like him," he said. "But I'm glad _you've_ said it too. You see, Pam,
when you think a lot of a girl, as I do of you--I mean when you put her
high--you don't like seeing her make friends with somebody miles below
her. That's really how it was when I saw you going off with that
creature; but of course I was an ass to get shirty about it. You see,
old girl, it means nothing to you. I know that. But probably it means a
good deal to him, and you give him a handle. You can't afford to give
handles to people like that. At least--no; I didn't mean to say that.
I'm not going to lecture you about it. You do exactly what you like, and
I'm sure it will be all right."

"Well, it's self-denying of you not to want to lecture me about it; and
I think you can trust me too. Talking about it at all makes it of too
much importance. So let's leave off. There are other things to talk
about, and I shouldn't have been sorry to have had an opportunity of
doing it yesterday."

"Ah! Well, I wasn't ready to talk about those other things yesterday.
Now I am. In fact it's what I came over to do, and I had some trouble to
prevent those other lads from coming with me. We've got plenty of time.
Let's sit down here and discuss the situation."

They had come to the stile leading to the meadows. Norman perched
himself upon it. Pamela stood in front of him, with some indecision in
her face. She was not quite prepared for a full-dress debate, and the
afternoon's pleasure was in front of her. "I thought you said we must
start at once," she said.

"That was camouflage. I told Castor and Pollux that we'd start in half
an hour. I gave them two glasses of port each to keep them quiet. What
I've got to tell you won't take long. It's chiefly that I investigated
that business of Coombe for myself, as the governor didn't seem to be
giving it enough attention. I think Uncle Edmund made a bit too much of
it, because it hasn't really done him any harm; in fact, I think it has
rallied the enlightened electorate of Hayslope to him. At the same time
the fellow _had_ tried to make mischief, and I think the governor ought
to have sent him away for it. I told him so, in a letter written under
my own hand and seal, and I got his reply this morning. I'm glad to say
that he had come to the same conclusion himself, and Mr. Coombe departs
immediately. So that ought to end it, oughtn't it, Pam?"

"I'm very glad you did that, Norman," said Pamela, looking down. "I knew
you were trying to find out something, but-- Oh, I _am_ so glad." She
looked up at him, smiling.

"Dear old girl," he said affectionately. "You set Master Comfrey on to
it, didn't you? Well, I'm not going to say any more about that. We can
forget all the disagreeables now--I'm afraid I must continue to think
Master Comfrey one of them--and be as we were. I think we ought to be
moving on now, or Castor-oil and Pole-ax will be getting restive. I say,
mother told you about the shoot in Suffolk, didn't she? It's a topping
place. I expect the governor will want to ask Uncle Edmund to come up
and blaze at 'em directly they've made it up. You'll have to come too.
It's a good big house, and we shall be able to put up lots of bright
spirits."

"Oh, it will be heavenly to get all this trouble over," said Pamela, as
they walked on together. "You can't think how glad I am. It's like a
great weight lifted off me."

"I know. They're both of them a bit touchy; but they're good sorts. I
knew _we_ could put it right if we took it in hand. I wanted to tell you
what I'd done yesterday; but I thought it would come better if I could
tell you that it was all finished with."

"Oh, Norman, I'm afraid I was rather horrid. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about
asking Fred to help me too. But let's forget all about him, and about
it, and enjoy ourselves. It will be rather fun this afternoon, won't it?
I feel I can _really_ enjoy myself now."

She chatted on gaily as they climbed up through the wood at the Grange
garden, and hardly left off chattering and laughing as preparations and
adjustments were made for their drive, and she was packed into the front
seat beside the owner of the car. It was Norman's suggestion that she
should keep company with his friend Blundellovitch on the outward
journey and with his friend Pollocksky on the homeward. But he altered
this arrangement on the return, and insisted upon sitting behind with
her himself. "She's my cousin and not yours," was his argument, "and I
find I've got a lot to say to her."

       *       *       *       *       *

For a good many months afterwards Pamela looked back upon that
expedition as the last entirely happy time she had had. It seemed as if
the troubles that had been darkening her home life increasingly of late
had all been swept away, for she had no doubt then that her father and
her uncle would immediately compose their differences, and the close
intimacy between the two families would go on as before. It had not
occurred to her that the Grange would be completely unoccupied. Her
uncle and aunt had often been away, for many weeks together, and she had
sometimes been with them, in the South of France or in Scotland, or
elsewhere. It would be fun to go to the house in Suffolk; she had not
been away from home for a long time, and change was agreeable to her,
especially in that company.

So she gave herself up to the enjoyment of the hour, and was sparkling
and radiant with happiness. Mr. Blundellovitch, as he was called
throughout the afternoon, was a stricken victim of her charms, and Mr.
Pollocksky, though unrighteously deprived of his opportunities, was not
behind him in admiration of her. They had a merry time in the house
which they visited, and started homewards so late that it was dark long
before they reached Hayslope. During the last half hour she and Norman
talked quietly together, her hand in his. There had been
misunderstandings between them, as between their parents, but they were
done away with now, and they were as close together as they had ever
been. It was not until then that she realized that the Grange was to be
forsaken in two days' time, which induced a slight touch of melancholy,
not unpleasing under the circumstances, which included a full moon, and
a delicious astringent hint of autumn in the warm night air. Norman
wasn't sure that even the partridges would make it worth while to
exchange Hayslope for Eylsham; but Pamela said wisely that it would be
better for their two families not to be so close to one another for a
time. "When you're as old as Dad and Uncle Bill," she said, "it's more
difficult to make up a quarrel. They'll like each other much better if
they don't see so much of one another for a time."

"Yes," said Norman, "I think that's true. They wouldn't be able to treat
it as you and I should. We might have little rows occasionally, but we
should always make them up, and when we had we should forget all about
them at once. That's one of the advantages of being young. I like being
young, don't you? It comes over me sometimes that I am, just as it used
to come over me out there, 'I'm in France.' But I'm not in France now,
and I shan't be young any longer in half a minute or so."

"I don't know that I quite follow you," said Pamela politely.

"Oh, I follow myself, all the way. Don't you see? Take the governor, for
instance. He must have enjoyed himself as we're doing now when he was
our age, and sometimes thought how jolly it was to be young. And being
old seemed centuries off, or at least so far off that it didn't count.
Yet here he is thirty years or so older, and it's what he's doing now
that matters to him. It isn't that it's a short time or a long time.
It's just that time doesn't seem to count somehow. Look at old Horace,
we three Latinists were reading this morning. He was extraordinarily
alive, and aware of himself, so to speak. But nearly two thousand years
have slipped by since he got tight, or half tight, and played the goat
generally. They don't count when you read him, and another few years
won't count for us when we look back on to-day. We're here--now. That's
all that seems to matter."

"Yes, I think I see it dimly," said Pam. "Anyhow, I'm very glad that we
are here now. It's a lovely world, and I think you _must_ enjoy it more
when you're young."

       *       *       *       *       *

The next day there was some coming and going between the Hall and the
Grange, but the shadow of immediate departure lay over the Grange, and
it was impossible not to take it as a departure more significant than it
had hitherto appeared. Lady Eldridge might come down again for a day or
two to finish her packings away for the winter. Norman said that he
would come down before he went back to Cambridge. But the prospect of
autumn and winter passing over the house emptied of its usual life could
not be ignored, and as yet there were no signs of the complete
reconciliation that Norman had announced. All the family from the Hall
were at the Grange during the afternoon except Colonel Eldridge. Pamela
had thought he would come with them and was disappointed because he
didn't. Her mother and her aunt talked together, but, it seemed to
Pamela, not in quite the same way as before.

She had one more talk with Norman alone. They went down together to
Barton's Close, not with any conscious intention of visiting the scene
of so much disturbance, but probably led to it by some such impulse. The
wide, wood-enclosed meadow lay quiet and deserted. The soil that had
been dug up for the plantings over a considerable area had been grassed
over again, with the sods cut from it, but the design of the garden, as
far as it had gone, was plain to be seen. It would never be made now.
That thought struck them both at the same time, for they had taken a
modified interest in the project, and their imaginations had played
about the garden that was to have been made here. It was almost as if it
had been, and was now destroyed.

"It's a pity," Norman said. "However, it doesn't really matter, if we
can get rid of the bothers that came of it."

For the first time, the thought came to Pamela that her father had been
unreasonable. But she put it away from her. "It wasn't this that they
really quarrelled about," she said, "though it began it. Norman, do you
think that it is all over? I don't feel quite so sure as I did
yesterday."

Norman didn't feel quite so sure either. He had had a talk with his
mother, and though she had agreed that there was nothing left now of the
original grounds of the quarrel, she had not treated it as if they were
back on the old terms yet. It had almost seemed to him that she didn't
wish that particularly. She had been very quiet about it, but what had
struck him most was that she was obviously glad that they were going
away. He knew that she loved the home that she had made for herself at
the Grange. She had not even seen the Suffolk house, which had not at
first been talked of as if it were to provide them with more than a
place for the entertainment of their shooting-parties. Some of those
might very well have been for men only, and she might have preferred to
come to the Grange at intervals instead of arranging for everything away
from it, as she was doing now, hurriedly but completely.

But he didn't want Pam to think that they were leaving Hayslope because
of the quarrel. Better debit something to his father rather than that!

"Well, all this sudden pushing off is rather like the governor, you
know," he said. "He's kept himself young in that way. He gets a sudden
idea into his head, and that's the great thing for the moment. I'm
rather like that myself. Perhaps Uncle Edmund thinks it all rather
funny; but--you'll see--when he's been up to Eylsham and shot a few
birds and drunk a few glasses of good old tawny, they'll be as thick as
thieves together again."

"Do you think Uncle William will ask him to shoot with him?"

"Why, of course he will." But as he said it Norman had some doubts of
his own. Uncle Edmund was a difficult person. The disordered ground in
front of them seemed to cry that aloud. His father was about fed up with
it. If Uncle Edmund didn't respond graciously to this last attempt to
satisfy his demands there might be no reconciliation at all. There was
nothing more left to be done, and he would just have to be left alone
till he came round of himself. If Norman read his mother aright, she was
already preparing for that to be a long process.

Moreover, he had asked if Pam couldn't be included in the first party,
which his father had already made up. The guns were to be three of his
father's friends, and Norman and Blundell and Pollock, who were
proposing to pursue their course of reading in whatever intervals of
leisure might be left to them at Eylsham. Only one man was bringing his
wife. There would be plenty of room for Pam. But his mother had said
that his father didn't want anybody from the Hall until they knew where
they stood. There would be plenty of time later.

So there was something that couldn't be said to her, and yet she must
know that in ordinary times she would have been asked. Oh, it was all
becoming difficult and beastly again. Why on earth couldn't Uncle Edmund
do the proper generous thing for once and put an end to it all for good?
Yesterday they had been as happy as larks because they had thought their
elders had settled their quarrel. Perhaps they had, but it wasn't
certain yet, and in the meantime here was poor little Pam getting sad
about it again. And no wonder, with this beastly half-made and unmade
garden in front of her eyes.

"Oh, why did we come down here?" he said, turning away in impatience. "I
hate the very sight of the place. Let's go back and find the others."

They went back, and were cousinly to one another, but careful again now
not to touch upon the awkward subject. The cord that had bound them
together so closely the evening before was loosened.

The next day the Grange was left empty, and the gardeners went down to
Barton's Close with a horse-roller, and flattened down the places where
the ground had been disturbed.




CHAPTER XXV

MISS BALDWIN LOOKS ON


To Miss Baldwin, watching the progress of that story in real life which
she found even more absorbing than her favourite fiction, it seemed that
complicating influences were coming into play, as summer passed into
autumn and autumn into winter. The story was made the more interesting,
but that happy ending which she rigidly exacted from all stories that
should earn her approbation, became increasingly obscured to her vision.
In a written story, you know--if you dealt with fiction of the sort that
you could trust--that the happy ending would come, and previous troubles
to be passed through only threw it into greater relief when it did come.
But in a story of real life you could not be so sure. In real life
things sometimes went wrong and remained wrong, which was one reason for
turning for relief to the right sort of fiction.

Fred Comfrey, upon whose suit, it will be remembered, Miss Baldwin was
inclined to look with favour, went away, rather suddenly. Watching
Pamela with sharp but sympathetic eyes, she questioned whether
"something" hadn't happened. There was some talk about Fred at breakfast
and luncheon, which were Miss Baldwin's opportunities for getting into
touch with family views. He was taking up a career in which he had
already attained some success; and a still greater measure of success
was expected of him now that he was ready to throw himself into it
again. Colonel Eldridge seemed to believe in him, and to like him. Miss
Baldwin could not interpret anything he said as a sign that he had any
suspicion of Fred's hopes of winning Pamela. His references to the young
man were hardly to be labelled as patronizing, but there was always a
sense of difference in them; or so it seemed to Miss Baldwin, who was
alive to such shades. She did not herself attach much social value to
the Comfreys. The Vicar was the Vicar, ex-officio on an equality with
her employers, and so treated by them, but he was obviously of a
different clay from the Vicar of Blagrove, for instance, who with his
family were of the intimates among the country neighbours. Mrs. Comfrey
seemed hardly to consider herself, and certainly Miss Baldwin didn't
consider her, on an equality with Mrs. Eldridge. If Fred were to be
viewed only in the light of his origin, it would not be surprising that
the idea of his aspiring to Pamela had not yet so much as entered the
head of Pamela's father.

But love takes small heed of such reckonings; otherwise, what would have
become of half the stories that Miss Baldwin so much enjoyed? The strong
devoted young man who was to fight his arduous way to an eminence which
he might fitly invite the lady of his choice to share with him, would be
greatly encouraged in his ascent if that lady's sympathies were with
him. And they might be; for she would see in him from the beginning
something of what he had it in him to become.

Were Pamela's sympathies with Fred in his coming endeavours? Certainly
they were. She agreed with everything that was said about the merit
shown by a man with no initial advantages in making his way in the world
by his own efforts and character. But there was no least little sign of
a personal interest in the result. If there had been, Miss Baldwin could
hardly have missed it. There seemed to be, instead, a tendency to close
the subject, whenever it was opened, with some general or even
platitudinous observation which, with other signs, persuaded Miss
Baldwin that Pamela had acquired some distaste for Fred Comfrey. But she
had been markedly friendly to him right up till the time he went away;
so what could the reason be but that he had "said something to her?"

Out of her expert knowledge of such subjects, Miss Baldwin had no
difficulty in conjecturing what that "something" had been, or in
interpreting the slight indications afforded by Pamela as proof of what
she had always supposed. Pamela had given Fred her friendship, but never
in the smallest degree her love, and the premature declaration of his
love for her had come as an unpleasant shock to her.

The effect of these conclusions upon Miss Baldwin herself was that from
the moment she formed them her sympathies began to depart from Fred.
This is easily explicable. Up until now he had been selected by her as
the suitor towards whose success the story was directing itself. One
allowed oneself those castings forward in the early stages of a story.
But, when indications began to be dropped that a particular suitor was
not intended for the prize, one put oneself upon the side of whoever
else seemed likely to win it, thus preparing for full participation in
the author's ultimate design. She had piled upon Fred virtues that were
not too apparent as long as there seemed reasonable hope of his success;
but now that Pamela, if she read her aright, had rejected the idea of
him and his virtues, they seemed much less to her. He was not, unless
Pamela chose to reckon him so, in any way to be considered her equal. He
might, indeed, if the story should so run, quite adequately play some
sort of villain's part, such as-- But it was too early to cast forward
in that direction. The story was still progressing in its main lines,
with another suitor to be observed, and an evident awareness on the part
of all the characters who came within her view of what was going on.

She had her opportunity with the rest of taking occasion to watch the
trend of events, for Lady Crowborough, coming over to Hayslope on a day
of early September to announce herself as the giver of an elaborate
picnic entertainment, had graciously included Miss Baldwin, who happened
to come within range of her vision, in the general invitation. Miss
Baldwin hardly supposed that she would enjoy herself, when she accepted
it; but she did, and not only because of the opportunities it gave her
for observation. The whole affair was like a scene in a story--a story
of high life--and her description of it, in letters to relatives were
full, and within due limits enthusiastic.

The numerous guests, drawn from the houses large and small within a
fairly wide radius, assembled at the Castle at about eleven o'clock of
a golden morning. They came mostly in cars of their own, but some
driving, some riding bicycles, and a few on horseback. The horses seemed
to give the expedition something of the flavour of a past time, though
there were hardly enough of them to deserve the style of cavalcade, such
as must often have set out from Pershore Castle in days not long gone
by. Pamela rode on a horse provided for her from the Pershore stables,
and so did young Lord Horsham. So did a niece of Lady Crowborough's
staying in the house, who was the life and soul of the party, and seemed
to be responsible for many of the arrangements. She had taken particular
notice of Miss Baldwin herself, and arranged for her to drive in a
carriage with an extremely nice clergyman and his wife and invalid
daughter, who were spending their holidays at a farmhouse near.

There were refreshments provided at the Castle before the start was
made. Miss Baldwin described the Castle, as it had presented itself to
her--one of the stately homes of England, of which she had been promised
a more extended exploration at a future date. The noble owners had also
struck her favourably, as true representatives of the aristocracy of our
favoured land--stately, too, especially the Countess, but of the most
courteous manner, and without a touch of condescension.

The scene of the picnic was a tract of primeval forest some ten miles
away. There were ancient gnarled trees of immense girth, with little
secret lawns, and stretches of deep bracken; a purling stream, and an
outcrop of rugged rocks, where the picnic feast was held. After having
feasted and strolled, the party returned to the Castle, and then broke
up, at a comparatively early hour. A simple entertainment, but quite
delightful experience, with most of the best-known people in that part
of the County attending and all expressing themselves as having obtained
the acme of enjoyment from it.

Miss Baldwin's letter did not disclose what seemed to her to have been
the inspiration and intention of this highly appreciated entertainment.
It was so much in matter of her own discovery that she hardly dared to
lay stress on it, even in her own imaginings. And yet she thought she
could not be mistaken. There was a round dozen of young girls there,
some of them of more obvious social importance than Pamela; but the
honours were hers. She was not mistaken there, for the nice clergyman's
wife asked her who Pamela was, and seemed surprised to hear that there
was no title attached to her, as there was to some of the others. And
the nice clergyman's invalid daughter asked her pointblank whether
Pamela was engaged to young Lord Horsham. Both Lord and Lady Crowborough
appeared to treat her as if she were; but, as Miss Baldwin knew that she
was not, this could only mean that they wanted her to be. Nor was it too
much to suppose that, by treating her almost as the most honoured guest,
they were willing that all these country neighbours whom they had
gathered together should know that they wanted her to be.

And yet nothing came of it. The few days, exciting to Miss Baldwin
because of what she was expecting, which followed the picnic brought no
announcement. Lord Horsham came over to the Hall the very next day, but
nothing came of that, as might so confidently have been expected. He
came over several times more before he went back to Oxford in October.
He was the admitted friend of the family; there was no young person who
was there more often, and no young man of those who came to the house
who could be considered in the light of a rival, now that Fred Comfrey
was off the scene. It seemed to Miss Baldwin that there was an air of
expectation abroad; that both Colonel and Mrs. Eldridge were waiting for
something. And the conviction grew upon her that there was a hitch
somewhere.

Where was it? There was no doubt about the young man's admiration for
Pamela. He was the best of friends with Judith, and very nice to the
children, as was natural, but it was Pamela who drew him. Her attitude
towards him was frank and kind. Oh, she did like him, and was bright and
gay when he was there, though not always so at other times. Could it be
that she was, after all, casting thoughts back to that other? By this
time Miss Baldwin was inclined to resent such an idea. Fred had taken
his place in her scheme as the rejected suitor, and it now seemed to her
that Pamela had never treated Fred with the same kind of friendliness as
she treated Horsham. Couldn't she make up her mind about him? Or was
there something else going on that delayed the wished-for climax?

It came gradually to Miss Baldwin, as the months passed by, that there
was a good deal going on at Hayslope of which she had not the key.

Life was duller there, and sadder, than she had known it at any time
during the two years she had been there, even during the last months of
the war, when Colonel Eldridge had been mostly away, and the shadow of
Hugo's death still lay over them. But during that first winter, when
things were beginning to settle down, there had been a good deal going
on that had interested Miss Baldwin in her first experience of the life
of a country house. Very little of it went on now.

What had become of all the visiting that seemed to play such a large
part in the lives of such people as the Eldridge's? Colonel and Mrs.
Eldridge never slept away from Hayslope during that autumn and early
winter. Pamela went away twice, and Judith once. Pamela had a girl
friend to stay with her for a week or so, and an aunt of Mrs.
Eldridge's, who had been wont to spend the month of October at Hayslope
for years past, came with her maid, but went back to Brighton, where she
lived, after a week. It was then that Miss Baldwin first realized how
everything was being cut down, more and more closely. The old lady was
reported to have said that she didn't get enough to eat, which was of
course ridiculous; what she didn't get was the elaborate provision that
had struck Miss Baldwin herself when she had first come to Hayslope
Hall. Nor did she get the service, except what her own pampered
grumbling maid gave her. Nobody else came to the Hall, where there had
been a constant succession of guests. There were only enough servants
now to do the work of the house for the normal family life, which was
also being reduced all the time, something here always being cut off or
something there. The drawing-room was shut up, the billiard-room was
never used. Mrs. Eldridge gave up her room and took to the morning-room,
which all the family inhabited. More wood than coal was to be burnt in
the schoolroom, and everywhere else. The outdoor staff was cut down to
one man and a boy for the garden, and Timbs for stable and garage; but
the cars were little used now. The light supper which had taken the
place of dinner during the summer was continued, except for the week
during which the old woman from Brighton was there.

There was never any discussion of these and other economies, at least
before Miss Baldwin, and there was no grumbling at them. Colonel
Eldridge was far more silent than she had ever known him, and she
thought he was ageing, and seemed now, when she saw him sometimes from
the schoolroom window walking alone, always to have his eyes on the
ground, and to stoop slightly, who had been so upright and active. Mrs.
Eldridge was just the same, always unruffled, always well-dressed,
though seldom in the beautiful clothes Miss Baldwin had been wont to
admire. Pamela and Judith had taken to doing things that had been done
before by servants, mostly out of doors. They looked after the poultry
entirely, making a pastime of it to all appearance. And they had taken
to making many of their own clothes; Mrs. Eldridge's maid, who had also
looked after them, was much occupied in housework. No word ever fell
from either of them to show that they were affected by the change in
their circumstances, which by now had come to be a complete change from
the way of life lived at Hayslope during that first winter after the
war. Pamela was not nearly so bright as she had been; there was
_something_ the matter with her, though it was not, apparently,
discontent with home conditions. Judith was much the same as she had
always been, sometimes silent, sometimes uproarious; half a child, half
a woman; but Judith had not known the life that Pamela had known, after
she was grown-up. Judith's life was altered chiefly by her emancipation
from the schoolroom. Her home and what went on in it was enough for her,
as it was for the children.

The outstanding difference at Hayslope, greater even than the changes at
the Hall, which, after all, did not affect the core of family life, was
the Grange unoccupied. There it stood, a big, rich house, from which had
radiated sociability and close intimacy, with all its rooms shut up, its
chimneys cold, its windows shuttered. There were a man and his wife to
caretake, and men still at work outside--more than there were now at the
Hall, though their only task was to keep things just alive for future
occupancy. It made a blank, even to Miss Baldwin and the children, who
sometimes went through the gardens in their walks, and lamented its
desolation, as remarkable by contrast as if it had been falling into
complete disuse. Presently there seemed to grow up about its forsaken
state something significant of a change more unhappy than was shown by
a house from which life had only been removed for a time. What did it
stand for in the story that Miss Baldwin was tracing out for herself
from all the happenings around her?

Neither Lord Eldridge nor Lady Eldridge, nor Norman, had come back since
they had left Hayslope at the end of August. Nobody from the Hall had
visited them, either in London or at the other house they had taken in
the country.

Miss Baldwin was not in the way of picking up rumours at Hayslope. She
was not in close enough contact with the family in which she lived to
get much from them, and she was in no closer contact with servants or
with people outside. But she could not help knowing that there had been
something of a split; and indeed that was now taken for granted. Alice
and Isabelle knew it. "Father and Uncle William aren't very good friends
now. I think Uncle William takes too much on himself now he is a Lord,
and father doesn't quite like it. But they'll be friends again when
Uncle William comes back to Hayslope." Isabelle had said that, as they
were going through the Grange garden. Some of it she had been told, some
of it she had probably made up for herself, for Alice had contradicted
her. "I don't think it's anything to do with his being a lord. Auntie
Eleanor is a Lady, and she's just the same; and so is Norman."

But were they just the same? It looked as if the estrangement had
affected both families by this time, though on the surface they
maintained relations. Colonel Eldridge corresponded with his brother,
for he sometimes mentioned, in Miss Baldwin's presence, that he had
heard from him. Pamela, if no one else, had been asked to stay at
Eylsham. Why hadn't she gone? That had never been disclosed. Norman
wrote to her sometimes, from Cambridge, and she to him.

What was the quarrel about? Money, thought Miss Baldwin, having come to
this conclusion partly because in fiction it was generally money that
brothers who had reached middle age quarrelled about, if they quarrelled
at all, partly because of the now patent contrast between the wealth
that exuded from Lord Eldridge and the lack of it that was increasingly
in evidence at the Hall. She could find no simple explanation of why
this state of things should have brought about a quarrel, but its
effects were now remarkable enough. The younger brother was a rich man,
and a lord, the elder, in spite of his large house and his estates, was
seen to be a poor one. Surely the younger ought to have come to the
assistance of the elder before this! He was not only not doing that; he
was holding off from him. Dark work, somewhere!

Early in December Fred Comfrey paid a visit to Hayslope, and Miss
Baldwin's interest returned to Pamela and her story, which had fallen
into the second place of late, because of what was happening otherwise.
It seemed to her that Pamela's attitude towards him was entirely
different from what it had been. She was friendly, but seemed on the
alert not to be left alone with him. His dejection was plain to be seen.
Colonel Eldridge seemed glad to see him; otherwise he would probably
not have been asked to the house more than once, during the two days of
his visit. He came on Saturday morning and stayed to lunch; and he came
again to lunch on Sunday and stayed most of the afternoon. But Pamela
had bicycled over after church to a house a few miles off, and did not
return until he had gone.

At supper on Sunday evening the veil was lifted for a moment from what
had been puzzling Miss Baldwin; but what was revealed only puzzled her
more.

Colonel Eldridge talked about Fred, and said: "He has been doing
business with William--seen quite a lot of him."

Pamela looked up surprised. "He never told me that," she said.

That was all. The veil was dropped again immediately. Lord Eldridge was
mentioned sometimes before Miss Baldwin, perhaps to keep up appearances;
but she was not to hear anything about him that mattered. All that she
gathered from this was that Colonel Eldridge saw nothing to object to in
a business connection between Lord Eldridge and Fred Comfrey, and that
Pamela was surprised, and apparently displeased at it. Or perhaps her
displeasure was only at Fred's not having told her. But she hadn't given
him much opportunity of telling her anything. It was all very difficult;
but what seemed to be plain was that Fred Comfrey could now be ruled out
as a suitor, though he might not yet consider himself so.

This was quite what Miss Baldwin wished by this time, and her
satisfaction was increased when Lord Horsham soon afterwards reappeared
on the scene. He was received in a very different way. It really seemed
at last as if something were going to happen. Miss Baldwin had come to
hold a high opinion of Lord Horsham, as a young man of sober, steady
habits who would make an excellent husband even for so fine a flower of
girlhood as Pamela, and this altogether apart from the rich gilding of
his title and inheritance. But he had not, previously, presented himself
to her as one whose coming might be expected to enliven a whole
household. That, however, was the effect of his frequent visits during
the early part of his Christmas vacation. And what could Colonel and
Mrs. Eldridge's lively welcome of him mean but that they also thought
something might be about to happen? What could Pamela's lighter spirits
mean but that she was getting ready for something to happen? Judith and
the children might not yet have had their eyes opened to the
possibilities of the happening, but they all three made much of Lord
Horsham. That might partly be accounted for by the rarity of such visits
as his in these days; but on his side there seemed to be a conscious
desire to stand well with them, and a success in the endeavour which was
agreeable to watch. If Pamela did marry him, her family might be
expected to share some of the tangible fruits of the alliance. They
could hardly be said to have gone down in the world--that dreadful
phrase which sometimes suggested itself to Miss Baldwin--if the eldest
son of an Earl, who lived in an ancient Castle, took his bride from
their house.

Miss Baldwin went home for three weeks' holiday at Christmas, hoping
that on her return a new chapter in the romance would be ready for her
perusal. It had reached the point at which developments of some sort
could not long be delayed.




CHAPTER XXVI

BEFORE CHRISTMAS


Christmas had always been a great family occasion at Hayslope. For years
before the William Eldridges had come to live at the Grange they had
spent their Christmases at the Hall, and there had sometimes been other
relations there. This year an indeterminate spinster cousin of Mrs.
Eldridge's was coming, but no other guests. Lord Eldridge would be
entertaining a party at Eylsham Hall, duly announced in the press.

It was this announcement that seemed to Pamela to complete and establish
the breach between the two families. "Why is it?" she asked her mother.
"I thought that father and Uncle William were more or less friends again
now. They write to each other. Uncle William sent his love to us in a
letter he wrote the other day."

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Eldridge, with a sigh. "But there it begins and
ends. Father would have been quite willing to make it up any time during
the last few months; but Uncle William doesn't seem to want to. He's got
quite away from us, you see. He's in the big world, and we're not. I
suppose he doesn't think about us any more."

"But Auntie Eleanor! She writes to you, mother."

"Oh, yes," she said again. "_We_'ve never quarrelled."

"But won't it _ever_ end, mother? Just look at the difference--what
happy Christmases we used to spend all together! And now there's no idea
of our being together at all. Didn't you ask them to come here for
Christmas?"

"Well, I didn't tell father, but I wrote to Auntie Eleanor and asked her
if they would come if we did ask them. I thought it might bring us all
together again. But of course it would have been worse if we had asked
them and they had refused. She wrote very nicely, as she always does;
but William had already made up his party, or some of it. I dare say
what happened was that he found he could get somebody that he
particularly wanted then, and asked the rest to meet him--or her, or
them. I don't know. When people once begin to chase other people, for
their names or their positions or whatever it is that attracts them,
it--well, it becomes a habit. Other sociabilities have to give way to
it."

This was rather painful to Pamela. "But Auntie Eleanor isn't like that,
mother dear."

It was half a question. "No," said Mrs. Eldridge, quite decisively. "She
and I have often talked that over. At least, we used to, before we
settled it between us, for good and all. It simply isn't worth while to
make friends with anybody for any other reason than because you like
them for themselves, and not for what they've got. Now you're grown up,
darling, I don't mind telling you that I was rather inclined at one
time--oh, years and years ago--to want to get myself in everywhere. It's
easy enough, if you have a certain position to begin with, and enough
money. And I was quite good-looking, when I was first married, and--"

"You are now, mother darling," said Pamela, with a laugh: "but do go
on."

"I don't say that there's not some fun to be got out of it," Mrs.
Eldridge continued. "Of course I don't mean just the vulgar sort of
climbing; but it's amusing to feel that you _belong_ to everything, and
people want--you, instead of your wanting them. Still, it's never worth
while in the long run. Eleanor saw that quite clearly, from the
beginning, and she made me see it. It's one of the things that I have to
thank her for."

"Oh, mother, it's dreadful that you have to be apart now. Don't you feel
it very much?"

"Of course I do. But not so much as I should have done a few years ago.
You're grown up now, you see. Besides, I've got used to the quiet life.
I don't really want anything else now, as long as one can live without
too much anxiety. I only discovered that a short time ago. Eleanor was
always preaching it to me; but now she's getting farther away from it
herself, poor dear. I'm sorry for her."

Pamela's direct mind was apt to be a little puzzled by her mother. It
was not always easy to recognize the source of her speeches, or whether
she was serious or only amusing herself. "Do you mean that you're really
sorry for her?" she asked. "I suppose she needn't get away from the sort
of life she likes, if she doesn't want to."

"She can't help herself. She loves William. I love father, and I want
what he wants. It's the same with her. But what he wants happens to be
more satisfying than what William wants. It's only rather tiresome that
just as I have discovered that for myself it's beginning to be difficult
to have anything at all that one wants. I've been wanting to tell you
something for some time, Pam darling, but I've put it off because I went
on hoping that it might not be necessary. Don't tell the others yet, but
I'm afraid it has to come. We can't afford to go on living here."

Pamela looked down. "Poor old Daddy!" she said.

"Yes, it's for him I feel it more than for ourselves. It seems to be
impossible for a country gentleman to live in his own house nowadays,
unless he has an income apart from it. Daddy never had much that wasn't
tied up, and what he did have is all gone now. I don't think we can get
expenses down any farther here; it is just coming to be a great anxiety.
It was I who said I thought we ought to go. He could hardly have brought
himself to propose it before it became absolutely impossible, as it
isn't quite, yet."

"Do you mean he is going to sell Hayslope, mummy?"

"No, darling, he couldn't do that; he only has a life interest. He'll
try to let the house and the shooting. It's just that we can't afford to
keep up a house of this size, for ourselves to live in. We should be
quite well off in a smaller house, and with the rent for this coming in,
if it can be let."

"Where should we go, mother?"

"That's the difficulty. Father wants to be here, to look after the
property. If the Grange hadn't been enlarged to such an extent, we
could have gone there; but there's no good thinking of that. It would
cost as much to live there now as to live here. We have thought of Town
Farm. It was a Manor house at one time, but it would take a lot of money
to put it back now, and make it nice to live in. I'm afraid it's either
that, or going quite away. But there's no need to hurry anything. We
shan't go away just yet. Don't tell Judith, or the children yet."

"No, mother, of course not. Don't you think I could go out and do
something? So many girls do now. I'm sure I could make my own living if
I tried."

"There's no necessity, darling. And I think father would hate that more
than anything. I know he would like you to stay at home until you
marry."

Was this an invitation to her to unburden herself? Her mother had never
mentioned marriage to her before. If it was, she did not take it up.
"There are lots of things I can do at home," she said. "And Judith, too.
You know we'll do all we can, mother dear."

"Oh, yes, darling. I think that if we can find a nice house somewhere in
the country, much smaller than this, but big enough for us to be happy
in, it will lift a good deal of the burden. Poor Daddy is getting more
and more depressed about everything, though he is trying to keep it from
us all the time. It's very hard that it should be like this now for men
who have done what he has. It all comes from the horrible war; and yet
there are some people who have done nothing but thrive on it."

There was no need to dot the i's of that speech. Pamela didn't want to
talk about her uncle, even to her mother. There was no satisfaction to
be gained from blaming him, but she did blame him now in her heart, and
she thought that her mother did too. Would he stand by and see them
leave their home without doing anything? Of course he could do
something, if he wanted to. But he didn't seem to care now. Did her aunt
care? She was sure that she did, but she had apparently resigned herself
to the new unhappy state of things between them. Did Norman care?

He had written to Pamela from Cambridge, not less frequently than during
previous terms, and in much the same way. Some of his letters had made
her laugh, but not with the old light-hearted appreciation of his
humour. What mattered to her most just now he never mentioned. Once he
had represented himself as on the verge of another love affair, with the
daughter of a Don of another college, to which he said he was thinking
of migrating. But she did not smile at all at that. She was beginning to
be impatient of Norman's love affairs, which never lasted more than a
few weeks. This one didn't last so long as that apparently, for he did
not allude to it again. If he had done so, Pamela would have written him
a letter in which she would have said that she didn't want to hear any
more about his philanderings, and she was inclined to regret that the
opportunity was denied her. Norman never said anything about Christmas,
though in previous years his letters had been full of anticipations. He
seemed to be quite content at the prospect of their spending it apart.

Oh, life was unhappy now. But there remained the duty of hiding
unhappiness as much as possible. Pamela was a good deal with her father
in these days, and she knew that he liked to have her with him, though
he never talked to her about his troubles. Well, it was something to be
able to remove his mind from them. She was able to do that, though she
seemed to be of so little use otherwise.

The usual preparations for Christmas went on, though on a smaller scale
than before. The children mustn't know that for their elders all such
preparations were something of an extra burden instead of a pleasure.
Even Judith refused to be exhilarated by them. "What's the good of holly
and mistletoe," she said, "with only old Cousin Annie coming? I think
Uncle William's a beast. I never liked him, and now I hate him."

Pamela protested. Judith had been as fond of Uncle William as all the
rest of them. "Perhaps I was when I was little," she admitted. "But I
haven't liked him at all since he has been Lord Eldridge. Father ought
to have been Lord Eldridge, if anybody had to be. But I hate lords,
except Jim; and he isn't like a lord."

Pamela laughed. "What is he like then?" she asked.

Judith did not reply to this. "I think you ought to marry him," she
said, with her sometimes disconcerting abruptness. "He wants you to, and
you couldn't get anybody better. Besides, father and mother would like
it. With four of us, and being rather poor now, of course they would
like us to get married."

"How do you know Jim would like me to marry him?" asked Pamela.

"Because he told me so."

This was rather surprising news. Pamela would have liked to ask if he
had told Judith of his proposal, but Judith saved her the trouble. "It
was quite plain what he wanted," she said, "so I asked him about it. You
needn't tell him that I told you so. I like Jim, and I want to see him
properly treated. Besides, if you married Jim, I could come and stay
with you."

"Well, you could come and stay with me whoever I married; but I don't
see why you shouldn't marry yourself, as soon as I do. What did Jim say
when you asked him?"

"He said there was nothing he wanted more; but he knew you didn't want
it yet. I thought that was rather nice of him. Jim has a very nice sort
of modesty. Most young men nowadays think such a lot of themselves."

Pamela laughed at this. "What young men?" she asked.

"Well, Norman for one. I like Norman all right, but he isn't modest,
like Jim. And I don't think he's behaving very well now. _He_ could come
and see us, if he wanted to. I suppose he couldn't very well come for
Christmas, and leave all the lords and ladies they are going to have to
stay with them; but he might come some time. He left Cambridge long
ago."

"Only just over a week ago," said Pam. But she thought herself that
Norman might have come. He was staying with some friends in Ireland now.
There were several young girls in the family, or in the party. Perhaps
he was falling in love with one of them. As he had been there for some
days, and was going to stay for another week, there would almost be time
to fall in love with two, successively. Pamela was rather pleased with
that idea, and thought she would write and suggest it to him. She was
always on the lookout for little opportunities of scoring off Norman
now.

But Norman redeemed his character altogether for the time being by
writing to propose himself for Christmas at the Hall. Preparations went
on with more gaiety then. With Norman there, this Christmas wouldn't be
so different from others, after all.

In the week before Christmas, Colonel Eldridge went up to London, for
the first time for many months, and while he was there telegraphed home
that General and Mrs. Wilton were coming down with him for the week-end.
This, too, was like old times. It was some time since the house had been
managed in such a way as to involve no special preparation for guests of
this kind, but these were old friends who had been at Hayslope before,
and it was a pleasure to get ready for them, though it was somewhat of a
surprise that they should be asked. "But I think I know why," Mrs.
Eldridge said to Pam, "and I don't know whether to be glad or sorry.
General Wilton sold his place in Ireland not long ago, and they only
have a London house now. Perhaps he is thinking of taking this."

So it proved. Colonel Eldridge told Pamela about it himself, after they
had gone. "They are going to the South of France after Christmas," he
said, "and don't want to make any plans till they come back in the
spring. But I think he'll take it. I'd rather have him here than
anybody, if I've got to let the place. Shall you mind very much, do you
think, Pam?"

"Dear old Daddy," said Pam, slipping her hand under his arm--they were
walking together--"I shall only mind because it's so beastly for you.
But it will be a weight off you, won't it, not to have to keep it all
up?"

"Yes. I shan't mind as much as I thought I should, because of that. If
you've got something that you can't keep going, it hardly seems to
belong to you. I shall be better away from Hayslope now, and we'll find
something somewhere that we shall like. We shan't have to clear out for
some months, anyhow. We'll enjoy it as much as we can in the meantime."

"Does Uncle William know you are going to let the house?" she asked.

"No," he said shortly, but added after a time: "It's no good thinking of
that, you know. We've got to stand on our own feet."

"Oh, yes, of course," she said, but thought all the time that Uncle
William might stop the letting of the house, if he were so minded. And
surely, he must be so minded! He didn't seem to care much about Hayslope
himself now, leaving his own house there empty for all these months; but
he couldn't want to see them leave it too. She wondered what Norman
would say when he heard of it.




CHAPTER XXVII

TWO YOUNG MEN


Colonel Eldridge was sitting in his room over the fire, which was
unusual with him in the middle of the morning. But the weather was
atrocious, and he had the beginnings of a cold on him, which disinclined
him for activity either physical or mental. The door opened, and Fred
Comfrey was announced. He was a little surprised to see him, for though
he had frequented the Hall when at Hayslope he had not come straight to
him; and this was his first appearance in the Christmas holidays. But
his visit was not unwelcome. Colonel Eldridge was not used to sitting
idle, and a little chat would be agreeable to him.

"Well, and how's the world using you?" he asked. "I hope you've been
making a success of it."

It seemed that Fred had been making a considerable success of it. He had
been given a partnership, which he had not expected for a year at least,
and his firm had just as much business as they could tackle. "My job is
to organize ourselves for taking on more still," he said, "and it's
taking me all my time. I hardly thought I should be able to get down
here for more than just Christmas Day. But I said I must have three or
four days off. Fortunately I'm in a position to do what I please now. I
couldn't have insisted three months ago."

"Oh, well, it's an advantage to be your own master. Very few of us are.
There's generally something to prevent us doing what we like. I hope it
means a good income to you. It seems to me you must be in business of
some sort nowadays to make enough to live on."

Fred enlarged upon what it meant to him in the way of income--a quite
substantial one in the present, and the certainty of a big one in the
future. He went into more detail than seemed necessary, and at
considerable length. Colonel Eldridge said: "Well, I like to hear of a
young man making good. You seem to be well up on the ladder already, and
you're what?--twenty-eight? You were just a year older than Hugo,
weren't you? You'll have to think of getting married and settling down
soon."

Fred's colour deepened, and he gave a little catch of the breath, but
said in a fairly steady voice: "That's what I've come to see you about.
I want your permission to ask Pamela."

Colonel Eldridge sat absolutely still, and his face showed nothing. But
his voice did, when he said, after a pause: "That's an entirely new idea
to me. Have you any reason to suppose that Pamela would--would be
prepared for such a declaration?"

The ice was broken, and Fred spoke more easily, but with his eyes fixed
on the fire. "I've never tried to make love to her," he said. "I didn't
think I had a right to. I've hoped that I should be in a position to
come to you like this some day, but I didn't think the time would come
so soon. I should have to make my own way with her, and I shouldn't
expect to do it at once. But I thought I ought to satisfy you first
that I shall be in a position to give her what you would have a right to
expect for her."

Colonel Eldridge's eyes had rested on him during the progress of this
speech. He saw before him a young man with a face of some power, but
little or no refinement; with a strong-growing crest of thick dark hair;
with a sturdy frame in clothes that contrasted somewhat with his own old
but well-cut suit of tweeds, neatly-laced thick-soled boots, and
neatly-adjusted collar and tie. The hands that lay on his knee, or
grasped the arm of his chair, were broad and short-fingered, and their
nails were not quite clean.

"You don't think, then, that what I've a right to expect for my daughter
goes beyond an income large enough to support her?"

Fred stirred uncomfortably. He must have felt the latent hostility. But
his voice did not change. "I don't think that," he said. "I only meant
that you'd have a right to expect that first of all. I suppose I
couldn't expect you--never have expected you--to welcome the idea,
exactly. I didn't begin life with the same advantages as you might
expect from anyone who wanted to marry your daughter; but I've made good
already, as you've said, and if I may say so without boasting, I'm going
farther than most men. I'm determined to; and if I could look forward
to--I mean I should have an added incentive, and I don't think there's
much I couldn't do in the world. In ten years' time, or less, I don't
think you'd have reason to be ashamed of me, as a son-in-law."

"Oh, ashamed! There's no need to talk like that. And one can't take up
the position that fathers used to take up over their daughters'
marriages. I don't know that you're not right, and the only thing one is
entitled to stipulate for nowadays is an assured and sufficient income.
Even that seems to have been considered unreasonable in lots of the
marriages one has seen take place during the war."

"Yes, I know. But I've waited until I could assure you of a sufficient
income, and I've come to you first, as I suppose I shouldn't have done
if I hadn't recognized that I was aiming higher than what might be
considered my deserts."

"Well, what is it that you want of me exactly? I've no reason to be
offended at your coming to me, you know. I've known you for most of your
life, and you've been welcomed into my family. I treated you as a
friend, myself, only the other day."

"Oh, that was nothing," said Fred. "I was only too glad to be able to be
of use to you. I should have been anyhow."

Colonel Eldridge winced a little. "I'll say quite plainly," he said, in
a slightly harder voice, "that, from my own point of view, I should be
disappointed if my daughter didn't make what would be called a better
marriage; but I say it without meaning any offence to you. If she chose
to accept you, I shouldn't--I shouldn't refuse my permission, though I
think--yes, I think I should stipulate for a certain time to elapse.
Will that satisfy you?"

Perhaps it was rather more than Fred had expected, though it was not
precisely encouraging. Colonel Eldridge seemed a good deal farther from
him than on the last occasion he had talked to him in this room. "I want
my chance with her," he said.

"Well, what do you mean by that? You mustn't go to her, you know, saying
that I'm in favour of your--your suit, or whatever you like to call it.
How far have you got with her? I say again that this is a complete
surprise to me, and I shouldn't have thought that she could have given
you any encouragement to go upon."

"I don't know that she has. One has one's own private hopes. We have
been friends; I think I can say as much as that. I was a friend of
Hugo's; she's been a sort of inspiration to me all my life. Especially
lately, it has made a different man of me to think of her. I've been a
rough sort of fellow--had to be, in some ways, in the fight I've had to
put up. I'm not good enough for her; of course I'm not. But who is?"

Colonel Eldridge's face had grown a little softer. "You talk of her in
the right sort of way," he said. "Well, I must leave it to her. If she
says yes, I shan't say no."

"Thank you," said Fred gratefully. "I'm glad I came to you first of all.
It seemed the right thing to do, though it wasn't very easy."

He laughed awkwardly, and, also rather awkwardly, got himself out of the
room. When he had left it Colonel Eldridge walked up and down, as his
habit was when he was disturbed in his mind. He was very disturbed now,
as the frown on his face and his impatient actions testified. Presently
he made as if to go out, but turned again irresolutely, and then rang
the bell. He asked the maid who answered it whether Mr. Comfrey was
still in the house. Yes, he was in the schoolroom, with the young
ladies. His reception of that piece of news probably gave the maid
material for talk afterwards, though he was not aware of having shown
any feeling. Then he went to the morning-room to find his wife.

She was alone there, and he told her of what had happened. She laughed,
unconcernedly. "With a pushing young man of that sort," she said, "I
thought it would come to a proposal sooner or later. But I didn't think
he would be so foolish as to go to you first."

He didn't understand this. "Why foolish?" he asked, with some
impatience. "Surely you haven't seen this coming and done nothing to
stop it?"

"What was there to stop? We couldn't not have him in the house because
he was likely to fall in love with Pamela. Now we needn't have him more
than we want to."

"What do you mean? I said I shouldn't refuse, if Pamela wanted him. He
wouldn't be my choice, or yours; but if she...."

"If Pamela wanted him! My dear! Wait till he's gone--I shan't ask him to
stay to lunch--and ask Pamela if she wants him."

Pamela came into the room at that moment. Colonel Eldridge bent his
brows upon her. He couldn't quite get it out of his head that she must
have given encouragement.

"Where is Fred?" asked Mrs. Eldridge.

"In the schoolroom," said Pamela, and went to the bookcase, which she
opened.

"He has just been with father," said Mrs. Eldridge; but Colonel Eldridge
stopped her. "I don't think that anything ought to be said," he began.

Mrs. Eldridge laughed. "You didn't promise to say nothing, I suppose,"
she said.

"No; but--"

"He came to father, Pam, to ask if he had any objection to his marrying
you, supposing _you_ had no objection."

Pamela blushed deeply, but after a glance at her father said calmly: "I
hope you told him that you had, Daddy."

Colonel Eldridge, standing in front of the fire, straightened himself,
and smiled. "I told him it wasn't the sort of marriage I expected for
you," he said, "but it was for you to decide and not me. I say, I didn't
mean to discuss it like this, ten minutes afterwards, with him actually
in the house."

"Perhaps we had better wait until he has gone," said Mrs. Eldridge.
"Were you going back to the schoolroom, Pam?"

"Well, I wasn't," said Pam; "but I can, if you like."

"There!" said Mrs. Eldridge. "Now I think you can go back to your room,
dear, and wait a little, without too much anxiety."

Later on there was another short confabulation, the result of which was
that Colonel Eldridge wrote a note to Fred to say that he had talked to
his daughter, who had told him that it was quite impossible that she
should ever come to look upon him in the way he desired. They would be
pleased to see him again, on the terms on which he had come to the Hall
before, but it would perhaps be as well to let a little time elapse.
After which he returned to his easy chair in front of the fire, rather
inclined to be puzzled at the suddenness of this new episode, and the
celerity with which it had been brought to an end. What Fred thought
about it was not made clear, for he did not answer the note, and was not
in church on Christmas morning, though he was known to be still at the
Vicarage.

All this passed on Tuesday, and on Wednesday, which was Christmas Eve,
Norman came.

Norman was in bright spirits, and the whole house responded to them,
although Colonel Eldridge, still under the influence of his cold, kept
mostly to his room. He was anxious, however, not to give Norman reason
to think that he was keeping out of his way, and asked him in for a talk
during the afternoon, when he told him how glad he was that he had come,
and in such a way as to give the impression that he was thanking him for
coming.

"Well, I simply had to, Uncle Edmund," said Norman. "I couldn't have
stuck it anywhere else, not even at home. They've got rather a ponderous
lot up there this time, and they can do without me all right, though I
said I'd go back there the day after Christmas. I think mother would
have liked to come too, but of course she's got to play hostess to all
the magnates. You wouldn't have thought you could have got so many
magnates away from their own turkeys at Christmas time, but the shoot is
really awfully good. We had a great day yesterday."

He gave corroborative detail, and they were soon in the midst of a talk
on sport, in which Colonel Eldridge took his part almost with
enthusiasm. Nothing was said about the estrangement, but what was
perfectly clear was that neither Lady Eldridge nor Norman considered it
as having altered anything of their affection for the family at the
Hall. No change, however, seemed to be indicated in the attitude of Lord
Eldridge. Norman did not eschew mention of him, when his name would
naturally have come into the conversation, but there was nothing to show
that he had been sent on an errand of reconciliation.

Norman hastened to assure Pamela, in answer to inquiries, that his
joyous state of mind was not due to his having at last found the right
girl in the Irish country house. "No," he said. "There were some bright
spirits among them, but not one that I could have gone through life
with. I am far more exacting than I was. I told you about Donna Clara,
didn't I?"

"I don't think so. At least I don't remember her name for the moment.
Could you afford to give me a card index for a Christmas present? I was
reading an advertisement the other day, and I think it is just the thing
I want, to be able to refer to any of them at a moment's notice."

Norman laughed freely. "That's jolly good, Pam," he said. "Jolly good.
If I could only find somebody who could say that sort of thing. Of
course she'd have to be as pretty as you too, and you don't find 'em
like that in every basket of peaches. Margaret came nearest to you,
but--"

"What has become of Margaret? I did think something might happen there,
when it had gone on for a fortnight. Or was it only ten days?"

"That's not quite so good, Pam. I saw Margaret last week. We met at a
play, and had a word together between the acts. Rather moving, it was. I
think we both felt that a chapter in our long-past lives, though closed,
would always remain as a tender and delicate memory. In years to come,
when she's a duchess on her own, and I'm a minor middle-aged lord, with
a chin-beard and a tummy, we shall get rather sentimental with one
another. Perhaps we shall fix up a match between my Clarence and her
Ermyntrude. But I was going to tell you about Donna Clara. I call her
that because her father is a Don of Clare, not because she's Spanish or
Portugese, because she isn't. She's a peach; I will say that for her;
and dances a treat. But I'm no longer thinking of migrating to Clare
College on her account."

"Why not? Is she _quite_ brainless? You don't seem to mind them having
scarcely any, but I suppose it would be an objection if she hadn't got
beyond words of one syllable."

"Don't try too hard, Pam. Something good will slip out if you wait for
it. So far from being brainless, Donna Clara-- But why pursue these
futile recriminations? She's the last. I shan't go about looking for it
any more. Perhaps I shall live and die a bachelor. I recognized all the
symptoms with Donna Clara. I was taken with her. I _did_ lean out of my
window and think about her when I got home; only it was so damn cold
that I shut it again directly. I _did_ take all the trouble in the world
to see her again. But when I did, that was the end of it. I _could_ have
gone on, but I didn't. I saw that I should be suffering from an
agreeable sort of fever for a few weeks, and then I should recover, and
have it all to go through again. Pam dear, it isn't good enough."

"Well, I'm not sorry you've come to that conclusion," said Pam. "It came
home to me when the affair with Margaret fizzled out. I think the whole
business is rather tiresome. You've got lots of other things to do. I
suppose a man can go pottering on like that, playing with his emotions.
A girl would be rather a beast if she did it. But even in a man I think
it's spoiling something or other. I think you're quite right to give it
up, if you really mean to."

Norman showed himself a trifle offended over this. "I don't know that
you need take it as solemnly as all that," he said. "We've had larks
together about it, but I can keep it to myself, if you'd rather."

Pam's eyes filled with tears, which surprised her as much as they did
Norman when he saw them. "Oh, don't let's quarrel, even in fun," she
said. "It's all unhappy enough without that." Then she broke down and
cried, but dried her eyes immediately, angry with herself. "I've had a
horrid thing happen to me," she said. "I didn't mean to tell you about
it, but I always have told you everything, almost."

He took her hand. "Dear little Pam," he said. "I know everything is
perfectly beastly for you now. I can't do anything about it yet, but you
know I hate it as much as you do. I've really come here because of
that--at least, you know I should hate not being with you at Christmas.
I determined I'd be as merry and bright as possible, but I haven't
always felt like it when I've thought about you. If you want to talk
over things quietly I'm quite ready."

She gave his hand a squeeze, and withdrew hers. "It isn't about leaving
here," she said. "I mind that for poor old Daddy's sake, and it's all
part of the general horridness which makes everything different. I
suppose I shouldn't mind about this if it weren't for being unhappy
about other things."

Then she told him about Fred. "I suppose I did give him some
encouragement," she said, "though of course I never meant to." She
smiled ruefully. "Perhaps it was that afternoon at Pershore Castle that
brought it on me. I was annoyed with you rather, and did it to make you
annoyed with me, which you were."

"Oh, yes, I quite understood that," he said. "But why do you let it
worry you, Pam dear? You've got rid of the fellow--pretty easily too.
You might have had to get rid of him yourself."

"I know. I'm glad I was saved that. I don't know why I feel it as I do,
though I've tried to find out. I can't really blame Fred. Why should I
blame him for wanting me? And he didn't even bother me. He went to
father."

"And I expect he wishes he hadn't now. I can tell you why you feel it,
without looking up any words in a dictionary. He's so far beneath you in
every way that it's like a degradation to have him even thinking about
you in that way. As for bringing it on--I don't think you could have
helped it--a pushing common bounder like that, who wouldn't understand
your just being friendly with him. It would have had to come, sooner or
later."

"Perhaps you're right, though I don't feel it quite like that. I think
I've got myself to blame somewhere. Still, I'm well out of it, and I
dare say I shall get over the horrid feeling in time. I hope I shan't
have to see him again--not for a long time."

"Of course you'll get over it; and you needn't see him any more,
ever--in any way that will matter to you. I wish I could say the same
for myself; but the odd thing is that he's got himself in with the
governor--in business. He says he's good at it, and a nice enough
fellow, who did well in the war. I'm all for treating fellows well who
did well in the war, but you do get a bit fed up with some of them, whom
you'd never have known but for the old war. I don't suppose Mr. Comfrey
would have dared to think about you, before the war. Oh, we've got a lot
up against the Kaiser. Let's forget about him, Pam, and forget all about
the other bothers, and have a jolly Christmas."




CHAPTER XXVIII

AND THE THIRD


On the afternoon of Christmas Day Norman went out to take the air. There
was a cold drizzle of rain, and nobody was inclined to accompany him. He
was not sorry to be alone, for he had a good deal to think about, and
his thoughts flowed freely as he strode along, buttoned up in his rain
coat and rather enjoying the bleak inclemency of the weather, so unlike
that of the traditional Christmas. But the Christmas atmosphere was
abundantly alive at the Hall, and he carried it with him as he tramped
through the mud.

He came back as dusk was falling through the wood at the lower end of
the park, and some association of place brought sharply back to his
memory the fight he had had with Fred Comfrey down here, years before.
He could see Fred and Hugo sitting on the log as he went towards them
across the park, and there came to him a return of the feelings with
which he had approached them. He came out of the wood at the place where
the fallen log had been. It had gone now, but there was Fred, his
old-time enemy, standing under a tree, with his eyes fixed upon the
Hall, the windows of which were showing their welcoming lights that no
longer welcomed him.

He started in surprised affront, as Norman came upon him. It was an
awkward meeting, for his reason for being there was apparent, and he
could not help knowing that it was so to Norman. He hunched his
shoulders and turned away in offence, without a greeting. Norman, who
had been thinking of him with cherished aversion, had an impulse of pity
towards him, and obeyed the impulse instantly, as his custom was. "Merry
Christmas!" he said. "I heard you were down here."

It was the first thing that came into his head to say, and was only
meant as a disclaimer of enmity. But Fred took it as a jeer, and turned
on him, his face flaming with antagonism. "I dare say you did," he said.
"Damn you! I say something in confidence, and it's told to everybody at
once; and I'm kicked out because of it. A merry Christmas!" There
followed an oath directed against Norman, and he turned his back on him
again.

Norman's impulsion of pity still held him. He had disliked Fred, in
their boyhood, but before their final quarrel there had been times in
which they had been companions, without hostility between them. That old
contact was present to his mind; and Fred was down now; he couldn't
triumph over him. "I didn't mean any offence," he said. "I do know what
happened, but there's no offence in that either."

Fred turned on him again. "I'm not good enough for her," he said. "No
offence in showing me that in the beastliest sort of way, I suppose! I
do the straight thing, and it's immediately used as a weapon against me.
Yet Eldridge was ready enough to come to me for help in his blasted
money difficulties. If he doesn't mind telling everybody my affairs I
don't mind telling his."

Again he turned away, leaving Norman at a loss. He took a few steps, and
threw over his shoulder: "You make her think she's everything to you,
and behave as if she was nothing. I'd have given her more than you ever
will." Then he went away, leaving Norman with something more to think
about, as he walked slowly back across the park in the chilly dusk to
where the warmth and light of the house was awaiting him.

The next day he went away, and the Hall settled down again to the quiet
life that had been brightened by his coming.

The weather cleared after Christmas, and on the first day on which the
roads were dry enough Lord Crowborough came tricycling over to Hayslope
Hall, and, in the same state of heat as before and with the same means
of allaying it by his side, sat talking to his old friend.

He had heard of the decision to let the Hall, and was full of sympathy.
At the same time, he couldn't quite understand it. What did William say
about it? Surely--!

Colonel Eldridge cut him short. "There's no enmity now between me and
William," he said. "We've practically agreed to go our separate ways,
though that has never been put into words. William doesn't come into
this, and wouldn't have come into it if we had never fallen out. All he
could have done would have been to subsidize me here, and I dare say he
would have been quite ready to do it. But of course I couldn't have
accepted that in any case."

"No. I can see that, if you put it in that way. But there ought to be a
way out, Edmund. He will succeed you here, and I am pretty certain that
if you both wanted to you could arrange things."

"Not in any way that wouldn't come round in the long run to my staying
here as William's pensioner. The property could be resettled by him and
me and Norman agreeing; but there's nothing in it for me beyond my life
interest and my wife's jointure. No; I am ready to go now, for some
years at least. It's possible that after a time, when I've cleared off
certain encumbrances on my income, I might be able to come back. But it
isn't time to think of that yet. I shan't be sorry to go, if I can find
something suitable to go to. This place has become a burden, and all the
pleasure of living in it has departed. The nuisance is that there's no
house here for me to go to. The Grange is out of the question, and
there's no other house that would do for us without a lot of money spent
upon it. I haven't got any money for such purposes."

"It seems hard lines that William should have spoilt the only house in
the place that would suit you; and now he doesn't even live in it
himself."

"Oh, well; that's done, and there's no good dwelling on it. Things have
gone his way and they haven't gone mine. They haven't been going the way
of us landowners for a long time, and the war has about finished us. I
sometimes wish I'd been born a generation earlier. My father used to
grumble sometimes; but look at the difference between those times and
these. Oh, no; it's time I cleared out. There's no room in the world
that's coming for people like me."

"Oh, my dear fellow, you mustn't talk like that. There's always room in
the world for people like you. We shouldn't have won the war without
'em, for one thing."

"It doesn't seem to have done us much good winning the war. Nothing's
the same as it was, and it will get worse. However, we needn't talk
about that. We shall have to stick it out, whatever's in store for us. I
don't suppose I've got more to grumble about than most. If I can let
this house well, as I think I can, and find another somewhere, we shall
be all right. I suppose the girls will marry in time. Cynthia and I will
have enough, for as long as remains to us."

"I think I might find you a house, Edmund. I've been turning it over in
my mind since I heard that you wanted something near here. Give me a few
days longer. But I want to know--you didn't tell me. What _does_ William
say about your leaving Hayslope?"

"I don't suppose he knows. I haven't told him. I dare say Norman has by
this time."

"I see Norman was here for Christmas, wasn't he? He's a nice boy, that.
I'm glad it shouldn't have made a difference to him."

"So am I--very glad. Yes; he's a very nice boy. He's like a brother to
my girls, and I'm glad they've got him, now their own brother is dead.
He'll look after them, if they ever want looking after."

"They're dear girls, all of them, Edmund. You won't have them all with
you for very long, I expect. I've had a sort of hope lately that--I
don't see why such old friends as we are shouldn't talk over these
things--I've a fancy that my boy thinks there's nobody in the world like
your Pamela. Well, my wife says it's Pamela; I had a sort of idea myself
that it was little Judith. It's one of 'em, or I'll eat my hat. Would
that be agreeable to you, if it came off some day?"

Colonel Eldridge laughed. "It would be very agreeable to me," he said.
"I've had things put to me that weren't so agreeable. Fathers don't seem
to have much of a say in these matters nowadays. But, thank goodness, my
girls weren't old enough to run all those risks of war-time. Yes, John,
if that arrangement would suit you, it would certainly suit me. I've
been wondering, quite lately what sort of marriage Pamela would
make--realizing that she was old enough to get married, which I suppose
doesn't come into a father's head about his eldest girl until it's put
there."

"No; or with a son either. But Jim is my only one, and I should like him
to marry early, and see my grandson growing up, if I'm spared so long. I
shouldn't care for my brother Alfred's boys to come into the succession.
However, that's a long way ahead yet. Jim's a steady fellow now, and
inclined to take his life seriously--more seriously, perhaps, than we
did when we were young fellows; but it's not a bad thing either. What I
mean is that I think it would be a good thing for him to marry, and with
such a wife as your Pamela--well, he'd be a very lucky fellow, and
she'd get him on in the world. There's still something to do for a man
in the position he'll have to fill, and the right sort of wife would
help him no end."

When Lord Crowborough had pedalled himself away, Colonel Eldridge went
back to his room, and sat there in front of the fire, with pleasanter
thoughts to keep him company than he had had for some time. The episode
with Fred Comfrey had made its mark upon him, though it had come and
gone so quickly that he had suffered little distress because of it. He
could hardly help thinking of himself as having come down in the world,
since he was no longer able to support the modest dignity that had been
his as the head of an old-established family living in the large house
in the middle of his acres in which his fathers had lived before him.
Fred Comfrey's proposal had seemed to mark that descent, for it had not
been from among men such as he that the daughters of the house had taken
their husbands. Now this so different proposal wiped out the effect of
that one. If only Pamela...!

When he told his wife about it, he found that it was no new idea to her.
"I didn't want to talk about it," she said, "because one is naturally
careful about not appearing to rush at a marriage of that sort. There
will be plenty of people to say that we have been angling for it--or
that I have--if it does happen. I do think that there's no doubt about
Jim. In fact, I shouldn't be in the least surprised if he hadn't put it
to Pam already."

"What--do you mean to say that they have come to an understanding?"

"I'm afraid not. If he has asked her, she has refused him. I don't know,
because she has said nothing to me; but one has a sort of instinct with
one's own daughters. Perhaps it's more likely that she won't give him an
answer yet. They are as good friends as ever. I don't think he would
come here in the way he does if she had refused him definitely."

This rather dashed him. "Crowborough said something about Judith," he
said. "He'd had an idea that she was the attraction; but her ladyship
seems to have chased that idea out of his head."

Mrs. Eldridge laughed, and said: "For once I agree with her. I was
inclined to think it was Judith at one time myself, though I'd hardly
come to think of her as more than a child. They get on splendidly
together, and really I think she'd be more suited to him than Pam.
However, there's no good thinking of that, for it is Pam, and there's no
doubt about it. Darling Pam! I do wish she would come round to it. She
is taking our present troubles hardly, and it would be good for her to
be lifted out of them. Perhaps she will, in time. But there's no good in
pressing her; we must just leave it."

"Oh, pressing her! Good heavens, no! I shouldn't like her to marry him
for the reasons that would appeal to us, either. I believe in a love
match, for everybody; but there ought to be something behind it too."

Mrs. Eldridge leant over his chair and kissed him on the forehead.
"We've never regretted our love match, have we?" she said.

He reached up and took her hand in his. "We hardly thought it was going
to bring us to this pass towards the close of our lives," he said. "But
it won't part us, so it's not so bad. Crowborough said he might be able
to find a house for us. There are several nice little places on his
property. If one of them fell vacant, I could carry on here from it.
Otherwise, I don't see anything for it but to put in an agent, and only
come down now and then. I think now we've made up our minds, the worst
is over. I wish William had written, though. He couldn't do anything to
help us, perhaps; but I should have thought it must have meant something
to him--our having to clear out. Norman must have told him, and there
would have been time to hear from him by now."

"If there's nothing he could do," she said, "perhaps it's as well that
he should leave it alone. We don't want the contrast between us made
plainer than it is."

With that she left him. She could not trust herself to talk with him
about his brother, against whom her anger was hot within her. She knew
with what a weight the estrangement was lying upon him now; that the
irritation he had felt against William had all disappeared; and that he
was inclined to blame himself for all that had happened, to the
justification of the man who was pursuing his eager successful course
without an apparent thought of the troubles from which he had cut
himself loose. She had hoped something from William until now. Looking
back upon the whole course of the quarrel, she did recognize that he
had made efforts to end it, and shown here and there the generosity
which had always been a mark of his character. But, after all, his
generosity had been easy to exercise. They had all lived in close
contact for years, and he had got as good as he had given, in the
affection which had prompted his generosity. Now that had fallen into
the second place with him; he was in pursuit of associations other than
the ties of family, and it was to further them that his openhandedness
would be used. What did they matter to him at Hayslope? He had run away
from the place in which so many of his interests had been bound up,
rather than face the awkwardness of a situation which he could have
ended at any time by a little patience and consideration. Even their
leaving it was nothing to him now. Four days had gone by since he must
have been told of it. He was not away, for Norman had written to Pam
only the day before, and mentioned him. It must be accepted now that he
didn't care. It would be as well that her husband should come to
recognize that, and then he would cease longing for what was over and
done with, and rely only upon those who loved him so dearly for his
solace in life.

But she couldn't hasten the time. He must be made sadder yet before he
could put away his sadness, and accept the new conditions.

She talked to Pamela that night. No pressure was to be put on her, she
had said. She put all the pressure of which she was capable, being very
careful to disguise the fact that she was putting any pressure at all.
She loved Pamela more than her other girls; she was making more and more
of a companion of her; she would hate giving her up to the best of
husbands. But to please her own husband, to get for him, something that
would lift from him some of the weight under which he was drooping, she
would have pushed her daughter into a marriage with less prospects of
happiness in it than this held out. She was ruthless with her, while
talking to her with a sort of cooing tenderness and sympathy, and
searching among half confessions and confidences for the point upon
which she could concentrate to move her. Her father was mentioned but
rarely. There was no plea to sacrifice herself for his sake. But it was
inherent in everything that she said that submission on Pamela's part
would bring something to him that nothing else could in these shadowed
days. She did not place before her any of the advantages that would
accrue to her from a marriage that would bring her wealth and station.
She mentioned them only to make light of them. _They_ knew, she and
Pamela, that those were not the best things in life, though one was
better off with them than without them. What were the best things? They
seemed to be summed up in Horsham, according to her opinion, though she
did not overpraise him.

No disagreement was possible with anything that she said. She put
herself apparently into complete accord with Pamela, and made it
difficult for her so much as to say that she didn't love Horsham; for
that would have been the answer to an invitation that was never made, in
so many words. The respect and even affection that Pamela was made to
acknowledge as representing her feelings towards Horsham were taken as
the most satisfactory with which to start upon married life. That was
apparently agreed on all hands, and was hardly worth discussing. The
question of "falling in love" was lightly touched upon. It sometimes
happened before marriage, sometimes afterwards. The marriages that began
with youthful raptures didn't always turn out the most satisfactory. It
seemed to be indicated that there was something almost indelicate in a
girl's looking out for those raptures; she would have no fear of such a
desire in a daughter of hers.

They ended their long talk under the supposition that Pamela wouldn't
marry for years to come, and discussed the future hopefully. It would be
splendid if Lord Crowborough did find them a nice house, near enough to
Hayslope for father to be able to look after things from there. They
could furnish a house of three or four sitting-rooms and eight or ten
bedrooms beautifully from the Hall, and leave quite enough behind them.
They could have a lovely garden, and there would probably be enough land
for a little farmery, in which they would all interest themselves. "I'm
sure we should be much happier than we are here now," Mrs. Eldridge
said. "I think even father has come to see that, and if he gets rid of
his worries we shall have him with us for many years to come, just as he
used to be. He is more cheerful now than he has been for a long time,
though he isn't well. I do think there's a brighter time coming for us
at last."




CHAPTER XXIX

THE NEW CHAPTER


Miss Baldwin came back to Hayslope after the Christmas holidays not
without hopes of developments having taken place during her absence,
which would introduce the new chapter she was longing for. Her return
after holidays was always greeted with welcoming chatter by Alice and
Isabelle, who were of an age when even the arrival of a governess to
whom they were not greatly attached was something of an excitement. Miss
Baldwin never seemed to take much interest in the news they poured out
to her, and she asked very few questions; but she had gathered a good
deal by the time her charges were in bed and her time was her own to
think it over.

The coming move was the most important piece of news. The excitement of
the children over any change was enough in this instance at least to
balance their regrets at leaving Hayslope. It was not quite settled yet,
but it was almost certain that they were going some time in the spring
to live at that dear old farmhouse which you passed on the road to
Pershore, about half a mile before you came to the Castle. Miss Baldwin
remembered it quite well, and the news gave her rather a shock, though
the children seemed to be delighted with the idea. It was an old
stone-built house standing very near the road, with its farmstead
adjoining it--hardly a gentleman's residence, in her opinion, and a
great come down from Hayslope Hall. But it was the farm buildings, which
would go with it, that made it attractive in the eyes of Alice and
Isabelle. And they were to have ponies. That would have made up for more
than they would actually lose by the move. Lord Crowborough was going to
do a good deal to the house before they went to it. It was bigger than
it looked from the outside, and there was a lovely great attic running
the whole length of the house where they would be able to play.

So the children were satisfied, and Miss Baldwin had gathered from the
talk at supper that their elders thought themselves fortunate in finding
such a house for themselves. There was talk of panelled rooms and a fine
oak staircase, and of restorations that were to be made to bring it back
to the state from which it had somewhat fallen. It was a house of the
same quality as Town Farm at Hayslope. Colonel Eldridge's chief regret
seemed to be that he could not restore his own house in the same way,
instead of renting one from somebody else.

To Miss Baldwin's observant eyes, Colonel Eldridge seemed to have aged
since she had last seen him. He had been unwell, and was not quite
himself yet, though he wouldn't acknowledge it. But the change in him
didn't come from that. He was depressed and silent, and made fewer
efforts to conceal his mood before his family than was his custom. Miss
Baldwin wondered whether his family knew everything that was behind this
somewhat startling change in his life. Was he hiding anything from
them? Was he a secret gambler, with a chapter to come in which his
horses would be led away from the door, and his wife would lean over a
ruined man with bent head and nervous fingers clutching a pack of cards?
But she rejected the idea. Colonel Eldridge only had one horse, and an
old pony, and he could hardly be induced to make a four at family
Bridge, with stakes of threepence a hundred. The estrangement from his
brother still continued; she had gathered that. There was something
there to wonder about, perhaps a recently discovered will, perhaps the
change of an heir at birth. Time would show. There was not enough yet to
alter the interest of a love story into one of mystery.

She divined, with some special sense that she had, that Fred Comfrey was
a definitely rejected suitor; though the children had hardly mentioned
his name and the others not at all. But it could not have been that
which made Pamela almost as silent and sad-looking as her father, in
spite of her efforts to behave with her usual brightness, and especially
so to him. It was only at odd moments that Miss Baldwin caught the look
on her face which told her so much; and the silence was for when her
father and mother were not there.

What was it then that was troubling her? Miss Baldwin formed many
conjectures, but recognized that she must wait for further material in
order to set her thoughts to one of them.

The occasion that she wanted came two days after she had returned to
Hayslope. Lord Horsham came over to lunch, and stayed for the
afternoon. He was going back to Oxford the next day.

Pamela's spirits had come back to her. She laughed and chattered in her
old way. Lord Horsham had never had such a reception from her in Miss
Baldwin's recollection, though all of them were brought into it, and
there was no time that Miss Baldwin knew of when she was alone with him
during that lively afternoon. When he had gone, she relapsed into her
listless mood, which was even more marked than it had been before.

So now Miss Baldwin knew. Pamela loved Lord Horsham, and any separation
from him lay heavy upon her spirits. She wondered what had brought the
change, for Pamela had certainly not been in love with him a month ago.
As for him, there was no doubt about it. He was head over ears, and
showed it plainly. It could not be long now before that chapter, and
with it the whole story, was satisfactorily closed.

Colonel Eldridge had a great deal of estate work to do now, which had
fallen somewhat into arrears during the days he had been laid up.
Besides hours spent in his office, where there was now only a clerk to
help him, he had to be out constantly, and in all weathers. Mrs.
Eldridge tried to dissuade him from going about so much, but he was not
a man who would respond to such dissuasion, with the result that he
caught another bad cold and had to take to his bed. There she had him to
some extent at her mercy, but she could not prevent him worrying himself
over what ought to have been done, but couldn't be done, or from busying
himself with papers, when he ought to have been lying still doing
nothing.

He began to mend on the third day, and proposed to get up on the next.
She took up his breakfast herself, and his letters, and then went down
to her own. When she went up again, he was lying still, with very little
breakfast eaten and half his letters unopened. She persuaded him to eat
a little more, and he talked to her for a time, and then said he should
like a message sent over to ask Lord Crowborough to come and see him. He
thought he would go to sleep in the meantime; there wouldn't be much to
do this morning; better take full advantage of his last day in bed. He
smiled at her and said that she was not to come bothering him until Lord
Crowborough came. He wanted to see him about something particularly.
Perhaps she'd better send the car for him, and a note. No, he would
write the note himself. She was to go down and order the car, while he
wrote it.

An hour or so later Lord Crowborough was ushered into his room, with a
face of concern. This was apparently on account of Colonel Eldridge's
illness, for he was quite cheerful with Mrs. Eldridge until she left
them, with instructions not to interrupt their confabulation, which
might take some time. But when the door had been shut behind her his
face was more concerned than ever as he came to the bedside, and said:
"You've had some bad news, Edmund. I'm very sorry to hear that. And
you're not in a fit state for it, either. I can see that."

Colonel Eldridge handed him a letter. "You're the only man, I suppose,
who knows all about it," he said. "Is it true?"

Lord Crowborough read the letter through, with pursing of the lips, and
a deepening frown. Colonel Eldridge watched his face anxiously for a
time, and then turned his eyes away, and lay quite still until he had
finished.

Lord Crowborough glanced at him, when he had come to the end, and waited
a moment before speaking. Then he folded the letter and said: "Yes,
Edmund, it's true, in all essentials; but what a wicked thing to send it
to you! The woman must be mad."

Colonel Eldridge roused himself. "Oh, you see what she says. It has been
lying on her conscience.... Spiritualism, and all that.... She wants
excitement, of course. We needn't bother about her; she's had the money,
thank goodness. She can't do anything more, except put it about, which I
dare say she will do, though she swears she won't. It's you I'm thinking
of, John. I quarrelled with you for saying it; I behaved badly to you.
I...."

Lord Crowborough lifted hands of deprecation. "Oh, my dear Edmund; my
dear fellow! I ought not to have taken the line I did about it. I
regretted it very much afterwards, when the poor boy was killed. Don't
think anything more about that. And don't let it affect you towards his
memory. He'd gone wrong; yes, more than you knew; but he made up for it
in the end. I've thought kindly of him, you know, for a long time past,
and I knew it all the time. Perhaps it would have been better if you had
known it at the first. It's a blow, coming now. But nothing is changed
by it. You must put it aside. You will, in time. It's all forgiven."

There was silence for a time. Then Colonel Eldridge said: "You're kind
and good about it, John. I knew you would be, when I sent for you. And
you've been kind all along. I know now that my son--cheated--yours out
of a large sum of money, besides pushing him into something that he'd
never have taken up, if he had been left to himself. I know Horsham well
enough to say that; and my son was an older man, who ought to have
looked after him--coming into the Regiment as a boy--the son of one of
my oldest friends. It was very bad. I can't quite bring my mind to it.
But the first thing to be done is to arrange for the payment--"

Lord Crowborough had tried to break in once or twice, and now did so
decisively. "My dear Edmund, the money was paid. William knew, and he
insisted on doing it. I couldn't refuse. Whatever I might have done, if
I'd been left to myself, I don't deserve the credit of that. There's
nothing more to be done there."

"William paid, you say?"

"Yes. Fortunately I told him all about it--you knew that, didn't you? It
was when I was still very angry, and had let out to you what I did, that
you took such exception to. I hope I should have done afterwards what I
did do, and draw back from what I had said, so as to keep the knowledge
of it from you. But it was William who showed me that it was the right
thing to do, and almost directly afterwards the poor boy was killed, and
then I can tell you I was very glad that I hadn't pressed it with you.
William saw it at once. He made me take a cheque for the--for the loss,
then and there, and promise never to mention it again, even to him. I've
wished lately...."

He broke off. "You've wished lately that I'd known that," said Colonel
Eldridge quietly. "So do I. One doesn't quarrel with men who treat one
like that."

Lord Crowborough didn't quite understand him. "I don't think you need
consider it as an extra obligation," he said. "I know it was over and
done with, for William, when he wrote his cheque, and made me promise to
say nothing about it. I've talked to him since, as you know, and he was
extremely irritated against you--no sense in pretending he wasn't--but
_that_ never came up. I'm sure he's never grudged it, whatever has
happened since."

"I wasn't thinking about the money. I've thought too much about
William's money, and talked too much about it, to you among others. His
money made it easy for him, perhaps, to pay what had to be paid; but it
had nothing to do with his taking pains to keep me from knowledge of my
son's disgrace."

Lord Crowborough brightened. "Oh, I'm so glad you've said that, Edmund,"
he said. "You've both misunderstood each other, and you've drifted
apart. My dear fellow, if this brings you together again-- Oh, I shall
be so glad of that."

Again there was silence for a time. Then Colonel Eldridge said: "Horsham
knows, I suppose. He and this--this woman's son joined together, didn't
they? It was plain to all of them."

Lord Crowborough had forgotten for the moment what a shock the certain
knowledge of his son's disgrace must have been to him, and set himself
to remove the effects of it from his mind. Colonel Eldridge accepted
what he said, listlessly, but it was evident that no words could heal
the wound that had been dealt him. Only time could do that. Even the
knowledge of his brother's action, which had changed the current of his
thoughts for a time seemed to have brought him only temporary relief. He
seemed hardly interested in it now. There was an air of hopeless
depression on him that Lord Crowborough was quite unable to remove.

He roused himself to agree upon what steps to take. There was little
that could be done. Lord Crowborough himself answered the letter then
and there. He wrote on behalf of his friend, who was ill. His own son
had been concerned in the affair about which Mrs. Barrett had written to
Colonel Eldridge, and all the facts were known to him. Until now they
had not been known to Colonel Eldridge. He would not pretend that he
understood the motives which had led her to deliver such a blow to a man
who had lost his only son, and thus immeasurably increase his grief. He
would only beg of her to let the story go no farther.

He directed and closed the letter without offering to show it to Colonel
Eldridge, who made no request that he should do so. Then he burnt the
letter that had worked such mischief, and soon afterwards he went away,
very disturbed in his mind at what had taken place, and what its effects
might be.

Colonel Eldridge lay in bed all that day, doing nothing, and not wishing
to talk. The next day he got up, and went about his business as usual,
though Mrs. Eldridge begged him to stay in the house.




CHAPTER XXX

THE TRODDEN WAY


It was a wild night of wind and rain. Mrs. Eldridge and Pamela sat in
the morning-room, waiting. Every now and then Mrs. Eldridge would go
upstairs, and creep quietly into her husband's room, to see if he was
still asleep. Then she would come down again, and they would sit still,
talking very little, while the big clock in the corner ticked on, and
the gusts of rain blew against the window-panes.

Colonel Eldridge had come in the evening before, shivering, and had gone
to bed. In the morning his temperature was high, but he said he felt
better, and refused to have a doctor sent for. Mrs. Eldridge, however,
took that matter into her own hands, and sent for one, who came towards
the end of the morning. He took a grave view of the case, and feared
pneumonia. He would come again in the evening, and bring a nurse with
him. It might be late before he came. There was a lot of illness about,
and nurses were difficult to get.

There was no telephone at the Hall, but there was one at the Grange.
Pamela and Judith had spent most of the afternoon there. At last the
doctor had telephoned that a nurse was coming down from London by the
last train. He would meet her and bring her himself.

The train arrived at a quarter past eleven, and it was half an hour's
motor-run to the Hall. On such a night as this it might take longer.

The time crept on. Soon after half-past eleven Pamela sprang up from her
chair. "I'm sure I heard a motor," she said, and ran to the window.

"It's too early yet," Mrs. Eldridge said; but Pamela had drawn back the
curtains. The strong headlights of a big car were already swinging round
to the hall door.

They went out, and Mrs. Eldridge opened the door, as the bell rang. It
was Lord Eldridge who was standing there, already unfastening his heavy
fur coat.

He slipped it off as he came in. He was in his evening clothes. "How is
he?" he asked, without any other greeting. "Has the nurse come yet?"

Many emotions crossed Mrs. Eldridge's mind, but the chief of them, in
spite of her disappointment, and the resentment she had nurtured against
him, was relief at his appearance; for it seemed to her that if anything
ought to be done, he could do it.

When he heard of the nurse expected, he considered, watch in hand,
whether it would be worth while to motor back in his fast car towards
the station, but decided against it. In a few minutes the doctor and the
nurse would be coming. He went into the morning-room with Pamela, while
Mrs. Eldridge went upstairs again.

"I only got your message just before nine o'clock," he said. "They
didn't know where to find me."

She stood before him, looking up into his face. "I haven't told mother
I tried to get you," she said, "in case you couldn't come. I knew you
would if you could, Uncle Bill."'

"Oh, my dear, of course. Poor dear fellow! But he'll get over it. We'll
pull him round between us."

There was such an air of energy and resource about him that it seemed as
if he could do more than a nurse or a doctor. He was wiping his face,
which was red, and wet with the rain. He told her hurriedly that he had
come up from Suffolk only that afternoon, and had gone to his club for
the night. He had dined out, and her message had passed to and fro until
it had found him, when he had come straight away. "If I'd only gone
home, as I might have done," he said, "I should have been here hours
ago, and might have brought a nurse down with me."

He put his arm round her as she bent her head to hide her tears. "There,
there, my dear!" he said consolingly. "Don't worry. It will be all right
now."

She dried her eyes. "I don't want mother to see me upset," she said;
"but I've been so frightened. Father has hardly ever been ill, until
lately. He has been so worried and unhappy, I suppose he couldn't throw
it off. I'm sure it will be the best thing for him that you have come at
once, like this."

A shade passed over his face. "I'd have come before if I'd thought he
would want me," he said. "It's been an unhappy business, but it's all
over now. It _shall_ be all over. I've taken offence too readily. I
won't take offence at anything now."

"I'm sure there'll be nothing to take offence at," she said, a little
stiffly. "When you see him, you'll only be sorry for him."

Mrs. Eldridge came in at that moment. "He's awake," she said. "He had
heard the car and I had to tell him it was you who had come, William. He
wants to see you. I don't know--"

"If he wants it!" he said, preparing to go. "I shan't upset him,
Cynthia. And the doctor ought to be here directly."

She took him upstairs. "He's very ill," she said, in a colourless voice.
"I know he is, though he says he isn't. I'm sure he mustn't be excited.
But I had to tell him you were here, and he would see you at once."

"I shan't excite him," he said shortly.

They went into the room. Colonel Eldridge was lying in his bed in a
corner of the room, with a shaded reading-lamp by his side. He hardly
looked ill, and he greeted his brother in his ordinary voice. "Well,
Bill, I'm glad you've come, though it's a beastly night to get you out.
You didn't walk through the wood, did you?"

His brother understood at once that he was light-headed. "No, old boy,"
he said, taking his hand in his. "I came in the car. I thought I must
look in and see how you were. You'll have the doctor here in a minute.
I'll keep you company till he comes."

He sat down by the bed, while Mrs. Eldridge stood, not knowing what to
do. "You can leave me and Bill for a bit," her husband said. "I want to
talk to him about that four acre field at Barton's Close. I don't think
it's much good for pasture where it is. I thought he might like to take
it into his garden. Just see if you can find the big estate map in my
room."

She went out slowly. "That's a good idea, Edmund," William said in a
quiet voice. "We can talk it over when you're better. I shouldn't think
about it now, if I were you. Let me make you a bit more comfortable."

He rearranged the bedclothes, which his brother had thrown off, talking
in a soothing voice as he did so. Colonel Eldridge was in a high fever.
He thought it was his father who was with him, and said: "William didn't
want to get into the punt. It was me who made him."

What strange things come to the surface of the mind when it is no longer
under control! Years ago, when they were children, they had been upset
from a shooting punt, into which they had been forbidden to go. It was
one of countless such pranks that had been forgotten, or at least never
brought to memory. It came to William now that his brother had always
taken blame on himself for any of them that had turned out
unfortunately, and touched him acutely. It was his elder brother who was
lying there, until lately the person most looked up to in all his world.
His heart was constricted with a poignant emotion, and his voice
trembled as he said words that would calm the rapid flow of his speech,
now becoming more incoherent. Oh, if only they could pull him through
this, he would never allow himself again to treat him as anything but
the elder brother, whom he could uphold, but must not gainsay. What
would it matter if he was sometimes unreasonable? There was no one else
in the world to whom it was so worth while to give in; no one who
carried with him that sense of rightful authority, even of protection.
He had been borne down by his troubles. Were any of them his brother's
making?

The doctor and the nurse came in. William was sent out of the room at
once.

By the next day they seemed to have settled down to the struggle for a
life, as if nothing else in the world mattered. Lord Eldridge, after a
few hours' sleep, had motored back to London, to find and bring down
another nurse. He had sent for his wife to come to the Grange, and set
in hand all arrangements for their staying there, and for the carrying
on of such of his work as could not be left undone. He was back at the
Hall before mid-day, looking as if he had been doing nothing out of the
usual run, but with a deep gravity underlying his capable
confidence-bearing demeanour. His contact with Mrs. Eldridge was almost
impersonal. She relied on him, and talked with him about what was to be
done without any sense of awkwardness. Her resentments were not solved;
they were just put aside. But for the girls the estrangement was over
and done with. They clung to his authority and resource, and to his warm
supporting affection, which he showed towards them so abundantly.

Soon after he had returned, Mrs. Eldridge came to him and said that her
husband wanted to see him. He was quite himself now. The nurse had said
that he had better have his way, but Lord Eldridge must be careful not
to excite him, and must not stop in the room long.

The weight of past trouble was upon Mrs. Eldridge now. She hesitated and
faltered, and it was plain that she disliked being the bearer of this
message.

"My dear Cynthia," he said, "if he wants to see me, it is because he
wants our dispute to be put an end to, once for all. I want that too,
and you can trust me to think of nothing but to set his mind at rest.
Don't think of me as an enemy any longer."

She made no reply, but led him up to the room.

His brother's eyes were upon him, as he went in, with an expression that
was sorrowful, but also welcoming. "Well, William," he said, in a low
but audible voice, "it does me good to see you here. I seem to be worse
than I thought I was, but we can have a little chat. It was good of you
to come, after all that has happened."

"My dear old fellow, don't let's talk about what has happened. I've been
very much to blame; but you have always had a lot to put up with in my
ways of doing things. Yet we've been friends all our lives, and nothing
is ever going to part us again."

He had taken his hand, and given it a gentle pressure. His brother held
it in his for an appreciable time, and then grasped it with a meaning
that was plain enough without further words. William sat down by his
side, with a sensation of choking in his throat. Their quarrel was at an
end.

"There's a lot to settle," Colonel Eldridge said. "I may not be fit to
talk to you again. If I don't get over this, you'll look after Cynthia
and the children. They'll have enough, but I've always directed all our
affairs; she'll be lost at first."

William forced himself with a great effort to speak naturally and
evenly. "You'll get over it, my dear old fellow," he said confidently;
"but I agree that it's best to be prepared. We've been like one family,
until lately, and that's what we are again now. You were quite right in
saying that I had spoilt the Grange for them, or I'd have looked after
them there. They shall stay here, dear Edmund. The old place will be
more like it has always been with them in it, and as I like it to be,
than with us living in it. I'm committed to another sort of life now,
and it's too late to go back. But we shall be down here often, in the
old way. They'll have us to depend upon, in whatever they can't do for
themselves."

"You haven't bought that other place?"

"No. I did think of it; but I shall give it up after this season,
anyhow. If all goes well, as I'm sure it will, if you set your mind to
getting better, we shall come back here, to the Grange, and you must let
me join you in a closer partnership. You'll be here to look after the
place in a way I couldn't do; you'll go on running it in your own way,
which couldn't be bettered, but under all the new conditions there's
room for capital and business methods in estate management, which I'm in
a position to bring in. We can do better with Hayslope if we work
together; we can get as much out of it as ever."

Colonel Eldridge sighed. "It is what ought to have been done," he said.
"And you have always been ready to do it, I know. You'll do better for
the place than I could now, and for my family. I've thought of them
always; but I've not done the best for them that could have been done. I
think I did before, but I've been too slow to see that it wasn't in my
power any longer. I shall leave it all to you, William, and go with a
quiet mind, if I have to go. Thank God, you can do what I couldn't and
that I've come round to trusting to you for it before it's too late.
Perhaps all the girls won't be here at home much longer. I should have
liked to know that Pamela would be happily married; but that can't be
hurried. There are other things to settle, William. We mustn't lose
time. Poor Hugo ... there's something I want to tell you ... you know
something of it. Oh, and Crowborough told me what you'd done, when it
first came out. I haven't thanked you for that. There's such a lot to
talk about."

He was getting restless. William put a quietening hand upon him. "I know
everything," he said. "Don't let's waste time over that. I know about
Mrs. Barrett, and the money. Young Comfrey told me of the new demand. He
ought not to have done it, but I'm very glad he did. I can take all that
on me now, Edmund. You won't want to hold out any longer, will you? I
know you won't. I'm _very_ sorry, dear old fellow, for the resentment
I've been keeping up; and ashamed of it. If you leave it all to me, and
put it out of your mind once for all, you'll give me more comfort and
pleasure than you could in any other way."

He seemed to be controlling his mind to a new idea. "Yes," he said, at
last, and more quietly. "It's one of the many things that you'll do for
me. You've been generous all through, and I've been stiff and
ungrateful."

The nurse and Mrs. Eldridge came in. William took his brother's hand in
his, and they looked into one another's faces. It was a momentary look,
but there was nothing to interrupt the message it carried, of
understanding, and affection, and trust.

William went downstairs, and found Pamela there. He was much moved, and
could not hide his emotion from her. She loved him the better for it.
"You don't think he's worse, do you, Uncle Bill?" she asked him. "He
_will_ get better, won't he?"

"One always thinks of strong people you've never seen ill worse than
they are," he said, to explain his emotion. "Yes, I think he'll get
better now. I've had very little time with him, but I've been able to
relieve his mind of some things that have lain heavy on it. I think
there's nothing he need worry about now; and I shall be able to talk to
him again. It's been a sad business, Pam--our quarrel. I've been very
much to blame, but it's all over now. I don't want to think too much
about it, as he won't, any longer. The way has been made clear for us to
help each other in what we want done. You won't be leaving Hayslope, my
dear. That's settled, at any rate."

"I shall be very glad of that, if he gets better," she said quietly.
"Uncle Bill, I wish you'd send for Lord Crowborough."

"My dear, you mustn't get thinking that he won't recover. I'm not going
to let myself think it. I believe, somehow, that if we fight against
that idea in our minds, it will help him to fight through himself."

"Oh, yes, I know. But if he doesn't! I've made Nurse Mary tell me, if he
doesn't get better, it can't last very long. I think he would like to
see Lord Crowborough; he has depended on him a good deal lately, and he
has always cheered him up when he has been over. Do send for him, will
you, Uncle Bill?"

He was a little surprised at her earnestness, but promised to do what
she wished. "I'll telephone over directly I get to the Grange," he said.

"He isn't at the Castle," she said. "They went up to London a few days
ago. You'll telephone to him there, won't you? I know he will come down,
if he knows how ill father is. Tell him that I asked you to."

He promised to do that, and left her. She stood at the window, and saw
him go across the lawn and under the bare branches of the trees down
into the wood. She stood there for a long time, after he had
disappeared, and when she turned back to the room her face was sad but
composed.

       *       *       *       *       *

The illness ran its quick course, which seemed to drag interminably to
those who could do little but watch it. There were slight fluctuations,
but never much hope of recovery, at least to those who had had
experience of such an illness. To his children, who saw him sometimes
for a few minutes when he was at his best, it seemed impossible that he
should be nearing his end. He would smile at them, and say a few words.
They were always words that they would remember afterwards--as if he
had thought out what he could say in so short a time, that would not
sadden them with the idea that he expected to die, and yet would not
waste the precious time he had still to be with them. He sent for Timbs
and old Jackson, and one or two more of the servants and the villagers.
To all of these he had something definite to say which was not a
farewell; but they would count it so afterwards.

Lord Crowborough had left London for Bath. He wired to say he was coming
on the fourth day, by the train which arrived in the middle of the
afternoon. It was doubtful whether he would be able to see Colonel
Eldridge that day; but it had been arranged that he was to stay at the
Grange.

Lord Eldridge's car had been sent to the station. It might be back at
any time now. Pamela was alone in the morning-room. It had come to be
recognized that it was she who had pressed for him to come, and pressed
again when it had seemed impossible to get him. It was she who was to
receive him; she had asked that she should.

She sat motionless in front of the fire, except that once or twice she
turned her head to listen. The big car made very little noise; she was
on the alert to catch the first sounds of it.

At last it came--the crunching of the wet gravel, heard as soon as the
purring of the engine. She sprang up, as if she would go out to meet the
arrival, but stood still, as if, after all, she was unable to stir. Her
hand went to her heart, and there was a look almost of fright on her
face, as she stood in front of the fire, looking towards the door.

It opened, but she could not move. Then her face changed altogether,
with a breaking up of its expression of strain, and she gave a little
cry. For it was not Lord Crowborough, but Norman who came quickly into
the room.




CHAPTER XXXI

AN ENDING AND A BEGINNING


Pamela was sobbing in Norman's arms when Lord Crowborough came into the
room almost immediately after him. She controlled herself with a great
effort, and found herself able to talk to Lord Crowborough, while Norman
went to find his father and mother, who were both in the house.

Lord Crowborough was in great distress, but he had to explain fully why
he had not been able to come earlier, and to express his regret at the
delay. Perhaps his deliberate detailed speech calmed her. She would not
acknowledge to him that hope was small. "When he is well enough it will
be a great pleasure to him to see you," she said. "I knew he would want
to, and that anything that cheers him up must be good for him. That's
why I persuaded Uncle William to go on until he got you. I knew you
would come if you could."

"Oh, yes, my dear; oh, yes. It's dreadfully sad. I should never have
forgiven myself if I hadn't come in time. Poor, dear fellow! It gave me
a great shock to get the news. Dear, dear! I can't believe it now."

He was not consoling, in his evident expectation of the worst, but
Pamela seemed to have strength enough to combat his pessimism. "He will
get better," she said confidently. "He was better this morning.
To-morrow I am sure he will be able to see you."

Lord Crowborough found it necessary to explain why his wife had been
unable to come with him. "But I've sent for Jim," he said. "He'll be
here to-morrow. I wish I'd sent for him before. Norman left Cambridge
this morning, he tells me."

She showed a momentary confusion, but said: "I think father will be
pleased to see Jim too, if he is well enough. We're all very fond of
Jim."

He looked at her and cleared his throat preparatory to some speech of
special meaning, as it seemed; but fortunately for her Lord and Lady
Eldridge came into the room before he could utter it. Norman was with
them, and as their elders engaged in greetings he and Pamela slipped
away together.

They went into Colonel Eldridge's room, which was being used now,
perhaps with the idea of keeping it alive and expectant of him. Norman
took her two hands into his, and said: "Pam darling, it has been you all
the time, but I've only just found it out."

She allowed her tears to fall then. "I've wanted you dreadfully,
lately," she said. "If only father gets better, we shall all be very
happy now."

That was almost the extent of their love-making. They had known each
other for so long. What was in the mind of each gained instant response
from the other. Pamela could take refuge from her deep trouble in his
love; joy in their new discovery could wait.

The discovery itself, however, must not be kept to themselves. Lord
Crowborough was the only person whom it seemed somewhat to disconcert,
but he joined with the rest in the desire to make it known to Pamela's
father. They would get his blessing upon it, which would be a happiness
to them to remember in after years. And it would please and comfort him.

Lord Eldridge, still cherishing determined hope, expected much from it.
Whether he was abundantly pleased himself, or only moderately so, did
not appear, for he seemed to accept it only as it might affect his
brother. But he did accept it; and Lady Eldridge made it plain to
Pamela, with a warm embrace, what it meant to her. Poor Mrs. Eldridge,
who hardly left the sickroom now, treated it as unimportant. But she had
greeted her sister-in-law in a way to show that the late estrangement
was not now in her mind; and she no longer held herself aloof in any way
from her brother-in-law. Perhaps unconsciously she took it as bringing
them all more closely together. She wanted all the support now that
family affection and sympathy could give her.

Pamela stood with Norman by her father's bedside the next morning, and
he smiled at them with full knowledge, and whispered a word to her as
she kissed him. He saw no one else but his wife that day, and on the
afternoon of the next he died. All his family were around him, but he
did not know them. There was none of whom he had not already taken
leave, and he had left them with no trouble on his mind on their behalf,
except the great sorrow of his loss, which time would change into a most
loving memory.

Time had already softened the sorrow when Spring came treading its
flowery way over the gardens of Hayslope and the country round them. If
there were still tears shed at the Hall there was sometimes laughter
too, from the young people whose life lay all before them, and on whom
no burden of loss could rest forever. And care was lifted from the
house, though at a very heavy price.

Mrs. Eldridge sometimes asked herself if it was possible that she should
ever come to enjoy life again, the question being prompted not by the
desire to do so, but by an uneasy suspicion of disloyalty because she
was beginning to find these bright soft spring days pleasant, in the
house and in the garden. She need not have feared, for she never had
that sensation of grateful expectancy which is spring's message and
bright consolation without an immediate pang to follow it. She had not
made herself his constant companion in the comings and goings of his
days, but never for very long together had she been without the sense of
his being there. When she had most seemed to be taking her own way, her
life in its ultimate ends had yet been lived with reference to him. Now
she had to adopt a life not so very different from that which she had
led before at Hayslope to a new impulsion. The life was pleasant enough
in itself, but at present it seemed to count for nothing. The days came,
ran their quiet course, and ended. Each one carried her a little farther
from the time when she had had him with her. And she would live them for
years to come, with nothing to look forward to. So it seemed to her
when she thought about it; and presently she found it was better not to
think about it, but to take the days as they came. Then her spirit
quieted itself by degrees, and her grief became less bewildering.

She and Lady Eldridge were close friends again now. There had been a
time, after her husband's death, when she had put it down to the trouble
through which he had gone on account of his brother. Then she had held
herself aloof from them. But the feeling had faded away. What did it
matter now? He was dead. Keeping up the quarrel in her mind would not
bring him back. And he had been so glad to have it ended. He had given
her and his children over to his brother's keeping, in solemn words to
her, almost the last of any he had spoken. Her mind was too tired to
think it out. She just let go of the feeling, and presently it died.

William was very good to her, and she recognized that his goodness came
from his love for his brother, whose wishes in anything to do with
Hayslope it was his guiding principle to follow. He took all money
affairs into his hands. He had assured her that the substantial income
she had to spend was due to her, and not supplemented by him, except
that he asked her to live at the Hall, as long as it suited her, and she
paid no rent for it. He professed great frankness with her, and told her
that the lines upon which he was dealing with her income enabled him to
make more of it. She did not ask how it was done; she was content, for
herself and her girls, to live quietly for the present at Hayslope,
under his protective influence. They were all one family again now,
though its headship had shifted.

       *       *       *       *       *

One windy day of early April, when the daffodils were gleaming and
swaying under the trees, and all the air was clean and sweet, Norman and
Pamela walked together in the garden and down through the wood. Norman
had just come home from Cambridge. He and Pamela had been very little
together since the discovery of their love for one another, under the
sorrow that had prompted it but forbidden that absorption in themselves
which is the usual effect of such discoveries. Perhaps their love was
all the deeper because of the sorrow. Pamela had clung to Norman in her
grief, and had aroused in him the strongest emotion to pity and
protection towards her. Their love had struck deep roots during that sad
time.

Then had followed the constant interchange of letters, in which all the
marvellous phenomena of their mutual attraction had been minutely
explored with one hurried week-end visit from Norman, just to assure
himself that Pamela was real flesh and blood, and that she loved him as
much as she said she did. Now they would be together for a month, before
Norman's final term at Cambridge. Already Pamela's sorrow had become
gentler. They would often talk very seriously and soberly together; but
they were very young, and they were going to be very happy. It would not
be forbidden them to be light-hearted during that Easter vacation.

They were discussing the future now. It involved, immediately, a great
deal of work for Norman's final examinations, and a visit from Pamela to
Cambridge when their tyranny should be overpast, and more lightsome
pursuits would follow. After that?

Well, Cambridge term ends when summer is still young. Wouldn't this be
the happiest time for a honeymoon? They would go abroad, to the most
beautiful places they could find, within the restricted area which the
war had left in Europe for searchers after summer beauty. Then they
would come back to England, at the time when England--or perhaps
Scotland--offered more than any other country. And some time in the
autumn they would make a home for themselves, which gave them more to
talk about even than the prospective travels.

Their first home was to be that Town Farm which Colonel Eldridge had so
wished he could afford to restore for his own occupation. The visits of
the best available architect, and consultation over plans, would very
pleasurably occupy the weeks of the vacation. The work would go on while
they were abroad, and be finished in the late summer, if the conditions
of the building trade permitted. Then there would be the house to
furnish, and the garden to make anew. Here was something to dwell upon!

But Pamela had a trifle of doubt in the corner of her mind. "Of course
it will be perfectly heavenly living there together," she said. "But I
shouldn't like you to lead an altogether idle life."

He laughed at her. "Darling old thing!" he said. "I shall be as busy as
the day is long. I had a talk with father last night, which I wanted to
tell you about; but there are so many things to say that you've just got
to take them as they come. He says I needn't work with the idea of
earning my living. It seems that he has been watching me, when I thought
he was so busy about other things that I was out of the orbit of his
eagle eye. I hardly know how to tell you this without blushing; but he
says that if I'd shown myself any sort of a waster he'd have dumped me
down on an office stool and seen that I stuck to it, or made me do
something equally beastly until I'd made good for myself. He was quite
frank, as only a father can be, and said that he had sometimes thought I
was a bit too passionate in the pursuit of pleasure. But he'd come to
the conclusion that on the whole I had made whatever I had to do for the
time being the chief thing. So he thought I could be trusted not to
abuse the freedom he was going to give me. And this is where _you_
blush, Pam--he thought you were just the right sort of girl to temper my
wayward tendencies. He wasn't sure what I could do best in the world,
because I seemed to like doing such lots of things that if he gained an
idea of anything special one moment he had to give it up the next. But
with you to steady me, I ought to be able to do _something_. He's a wise
bird--the Lord Eldridge of Hayslope. He knows how happy we are going to
be together, and he's going to let us be as happy as ever we can. Make
people happy, and you'll make 'em good."

"He has been very good to us," said Pamela. "I wasn't quite sure that he
was really pleased, at first. It was very sweet of him to talk like
that about me. I'm sure there are heaps of things you will do, darling,
better than other people; and you know I'll do every mortal thing I can
to help you. Uncle Bill shan't be disappointed in me."

"Adorable angel," said Norman. "Father's as pleased as he can be about
us. He said he saw it coming all the time. So did mother. It seems so
extraordinary that _we_ didn't."

The conversation then took a lighter turn. Pamela threw a quick look at
him, and said: "Well, you were rather busy looking out for somebody
else, weren't you? I often used to wonder who it would be, and I'm bound
to say that I never thought it would be me. I can't be blamed. It would
have looked so very unlikely."

"Now, Pam, we've had that out before. If I hadn't told you all about all
of them as they came and went--especially as they went--I might be
inclined to wince at your reminder. But I suppose you only want me to
say again that I could never have loved anybody but you for more than a
few minutes, and that what I felt for all those charmers put together
wasn't a drop in the ocean compared to what I feel for you. Oh, Lord!
What a discovery it was! Pam darling, could I have just one? It would be
such a refreshment."

There was a short interlude, and then Pam said: "I don't think I really
feel jealous about Margaret and Company--Unlimited. It will give us
something to talk about in future years. Still, I'm glad that I didn't
go about falling in love myself."

"So am I, darling. But people would soon have begun to fall in love
with you. There was poor old Jim already."

She turned her head away, and a blush came to her face. "I'd rather that
you didn't talk about him and me like that," she said. "For one thing,
he will almost certainly marry Judith some day."

"I suppose so. How are they getting on together? Has he been over since
he came down?"

"Yes. It's rather touching to see them. Poor little Ju! She has been
frightfully sad, and she's kept it so much to herself. Jim seems to have
just the right way with her. She talks about father to him, I know. And
he was so nice about us, Norman. I think there's something really fine
about Jim, and we've been rather prigs about him. He hasn't got our sort
of interests; but Judith hasn't either, and nobody could call her dull.
Jim is simple in a large sort of way; and it's a very good quality."

"Yes, I think it is. And he _has_ behaved well, for it must have been a
bit of a knock for him to come and find you and me as we were. You do
think he and Judy will fix it up between them, do you?"

"Not yet. But I think it will come. They're rather like you and me. Each
of them is what the other wants, and they'll find it out all of a
sudden."

"What has become of Mr. Fred Comfrey, Pam? I haven't seen him since
father found out what sort of a fellow he was, and wouldn't have
anything more to do with him."

Her face grew shadowed again. "He doesn't come here," she said. "Mrs.
Comfrey thinks it is my fault. At least, she'll hardly speak to me; and
I suppose it is that. I'm not sure that I ought not to have given him my
answer myself, instead of leaving it to Daddy."

"Oh, my dear child, it was infernal impudence of him to think about you
at all--a creature like that!"

"Well, I suppose you have always been right about him. But he showed his
best side to me. There was a lot that was good and kind in him."

"Nobody is all bad, I suppose; and even a beast like that rises to
something, when he's thinking about somebody else, and not always about
himself. The trouble is, though, that it doesn't always last. I've seen
it in marriages made in a hurry during the war. What's so heavenly about
us, Pam, is that we do know each other; and yet there's always something
new, somehow. I don't believe there's anybody in the world loves
somebody else more than I love you. And I love you more and more every
day. I may have made one or two half-hearted experiments before, but
there was never anything like this."

"Not even when Margaret said 'Good-bye, Norman'?"

"That was a thrill, I admit. But what a faint thrill, after all! Nothing
like what I get every time you come into a room. But there's something
more than thrills in it. The thrills are only the ripples on the
surface. The real love is the quiet deep water underneath. That's what
we've got, darling. It will last us all our lives."

They had come down to Barton's Close, where the thick grass had already
hidden all signs of the disturbance to which it had been subjected.
They found a bank on the edge of it bright with primroses, upon which
the sun was shining, and sat there for a time. Looking over the rich
green carpet of the meadow, it was natural that they should fall into
talk of the disturbances that had had their rise here; for there was no
subject that they shirked, and this one had affected them deeply.

"Of course it was nothing in itself," Norman said. "If it hadn't been
for an accident here and there, they would have settled it at once.
Father says that. It began with their writing letters to one another,
instead of talking it over. Then when they did talk the quarrel had gone
too far."

"Does Uncle Bill talk about it still?"

"He talked about it yesterday. He feels it very much still."

"Poor Uncle Bill! But I've thought about it a lot, and I don't love him
any less because of it. If he weren't sorry about it himself, I suppose
it would make a difference. But I know he did love my darling Daddy;
they loved one another underneath it all. They both knew it at the last.
When father couldn't speak any more, and Uncle Bill took my hand in his,
and said he would look after me and all of us, I could tell by the way
he looked at him that that was what he wanted. Oh, they did love one
another, I know. If only that quarrel hadn't come between them, almost
at the last! Why do people quarrel who love one another?"

"I think that we ought not to make too much of it, Pam darling. I've
thought about it too. It's because poor Uncle Edmund died that it seems
so important. If he had lived they would have made it up. They couldn't
have helped themselves, because of what they really were to one another.
Then it would all have been forgotten very quickly; and I should think
they would both have been careful that it shouldn't happen again."

"Yes, I dare say that's true. But it just shows that it doesn't do for
people who love one another to let themselves quarrel at all. We never
will, will we?"

They agreed upon that, and upon many other things. Then they walked
slowly back to the Hall together, hand in hand part of the way. Miss
Baldwin, from her watch tower of the schoolroom window, saw them under
the trees before they came out on to the lawn as separate units. She had
seen few signs of the emotion she had craved for between them, and to
catch that glimpse of them together pleased her. It was the right ending
of the story whose vicissitudes she had watched with such interest. Its
later chapters had been sadder than she had anticipated, and her
sympathies had of late been more human than literary with the family
with whom she lived. But the shadow of loss seemed to be lifting, in
these sunny spring days. It was not forbidden to her now to weave her
tales around them. Already she scented another absorbing romance to
unfold itself before her eyes. And with this one, the interest of which
she might have expected to come to an end with the approaching pealing
of wedding bells, she found herself still looking forward. For if you
could take leave of the heroes and heroines of fiction at the church
door, with no wish to follow their fortunes further, it was not so with
those with whom you had come to feel a living sympathy. For them a new
story was beginning, from which as much happiness was to be looked for
as from the one that had led up to it.


THE END





End of Project Gutenberg's The Hall and the Grange, by Archibald Marshall