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'tquitesettled 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'tyousay 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 thatInever 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 whattheywould 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."
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 ownaffairs. 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 withhim 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. Therewere 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 hegave 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 thanthe 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, andhe 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—andsome 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'dknown 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 richcity 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 timeit 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—hadbeen 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. Hehad 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 immenseexpense. 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 mindthat 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—asnames, 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 ourselvesso 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 Icouldhelp 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."
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. Hisown 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 andbright 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 heardwhat 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?Whattreatment, 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'task 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 superiorityover me. I've given way too much to them in the past. I wouldn't say so to anybody but you, but whatisEdmund'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 thathemight consider all that too. I think if I were the elder brother I should have shown a good deal more pleasure thanhehas 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. Heisfond of you, there's no doubt about it, and he relies on you, perhaps more than he knows. Hecan'tmean 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 sowell. 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—"
"Whatisthe 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 accordancewith 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 becauseshe 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. Ishall 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 privaterelations. "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 belittlingyour 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 wouldhave involved rewriting four whole pages, and thecodawas 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 sureyouknow 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 thisplainly 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 wedolove."
"Dearest Cynthia:—I am sorry that Edmund is annoyed about the garden. I am sureyouknow 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 thisplainly 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 wedolove."
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.
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, ColonelEldridge. 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 emotionsexcept 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 ofeither 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.Idon'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 offriends—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 spokenangrily 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 theshade 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 lifethat 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.