"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. Theyhad 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 intothe 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 enoughtothem 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 gotsomeintelligence. 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. Sheknows. 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 peoplethink it an added beauty. But they all seemed to have the brains of rabbits. I was beginning to think that you neverwouldfall 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 domestichold, 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 alittle 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 itwasrather 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 werejust 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 thinkhe'sgood enough, you know, though heisa 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 withhim," 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'tnothave 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."
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-bodiedmen 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 servicewith 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 whatthe 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 multipliedby 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. Asa 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 endof 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 whichhad 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 opportunitiesof 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 darkmember 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 thelibrary 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 eminentlygoodchildren, 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 insuch 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 themwith 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.
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 thatHorsham 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'tmind 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 isthere, 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.Youand 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 itisdifferent, 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 placeismine, as long as I'm alive, and I'm not going to hand over the reins to William. He's norightto 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 hiswork. At one point I really did think of ordering him to knock it off. Icouldhave 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.Ican'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. Butsheisn'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 Ishallveto. The Grange is mine aswell 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 youareirritated, 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 probablyhave 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."
"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'show 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."
"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'show 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 makethisenlargement, did you, dear?" she asked.
"Oh, no. He can go on with that, as he has begun it. I must say that I think itwillbe 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 lookveryold myself. I don't really feel it. Still, womenhaveto 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 shouldthink 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."
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 followedthem 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 bearingwhich 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, onebecomes 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 whichthere 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.Nobodycould 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 Idon'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. Normanwasapt 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.