Perhaps that old stay-at-home life of the country house would come back of compulsion, now that so many people were straitened in circumstances. It would be a good thing in many ways if it did; if the men who owned the land lived more closely to it, and identified themselves with those who were bound to it. That was a larger question; but there was no doubt that it could be made a satisfying life, if the necessary changes were squarely faced and accepted, and the life was arranged on a new basis. It came to his mind, witha gratifying sense of discovery, that for him and his family that basis had already been found. It only remained to cease always casting back towards what had been before and could now be no longer. The best part remained, and life for him and his at Hayslope might be happy as it had ever been.
And the other deeper trouble was clearing too. He was glad that it had been mentioned between him and his old friend, whom for a time it had parted. At the last, as they had gone down the drive together, Lord Crowborough had said to him, quite simply: "We fell out about your poor boy, Edmund. I don't want to go away and leave him as something that must never be mentioned between us. It was a sad business, but for him it was wiped out when he fought well and was killed. He was your only son, and you've lost him. I've been more lucky in keeping mine."
That had put the finishing touch to their reconciliation. Hugo's lapses could be forgotten now, as they had been forgiven. They had been bad. For a long time after his death one trouble after another had come because of him, one revelation after another had been made. He had kept them nearly all to himself. Only his brother knew something of them, and he knew by no means all. His wife knew nothing. But an end seemed to have come to it at last. The burden on his mind was lifting, though it still lay heavy upon his purse, and would mean rigid economy for years to come.
How good William had been about it all! A real consolation and support in his troubles, and willing,as he was able, to lift even the money burden of them from him. He blamed himself for having shown the irritability that had grown upon him, under the stress he had gone through, towards his brother. It was a poor return for what he had been so ready to do for him, to make a mountain out of that little molehill of irritation over Barton's Close. But William would not make too much of that. Perhaps the very best way to show him that it had been only a surface irritation, which did not affect the permanent tie of affection between them, would be to accept the help that he had so freely offered. Only pride had held him back, and that had prevented him from even acknowledging the generosity of the offer. He had simply put it aside. With that burden removed, scarcely any trouble would remain to him at all. He had already everything that was necessary to his own life for the remainder of his years. It was only upon Cynthia and the children that the economies which now had to be practised bore hardly. With this relief, which it was open to him to take at any time, he could give them more—if not all that he would have been able to give them but for the war. And he knew that William would be pleased if he were to go to him and say that he would accept his help. It would bind them together still more closely, for it would mean the merging of pride in affection.
He saw it all in that moment of enlightenment and softer feeling, and lingered on his way back to the house to taste the serener air which his vision brought him. His well-loved home would be a source of delightto him once more, and no longer a source of anxiety, if he were to take the freedom that he could have at any time by a word of surrender. He looked about him before he entered the house, and the sunshine that steeped the wide spaces of the park seemed brighter and lovelier than before. There had lain a veil over the beauties of his home. But it only needed a gesture of his to have it removed altogether.
The parlour-maid met him as he went into the hall. "Mr. Coombe, Sir William's gardener, would like to see you, sir."
He went into his business room, where the man was waiting for him.
"I've had this telegram from Sir William, sir."
He handed over the pink sheet, and stood respectfully, cap in hand, while Colonel Eldridge read it. But his eyes rested upon him with an expression that had nothing pleasant in it.
"Stop work on new garden at once; pay outside labourers week's wages and dismiss them."
Colonel Eldridge's eyes, resting upon the paper, remained there longer than it required to take in its meaning. Coming immediately upon the thoughts with which his mind had been full, they gave him an unpleasant shock, the effect of which he could not entirely hide from the man who had administered it to him.
"There's a mistake," he said shortly. "I never intended that the work should be stopped."
Coombe did not take this up. "I've come to ask, sir," he said, "if anything can be done about the menI got in to help with the work. I had a good deal of difficulty in finding them, and I told them it was likely to be at least a two months' job. Sir William said I could count it as that. They're mostly men who've been in the army—unemployed. There's dissatisfaction among them, and I—"
Colonel Eldridge had allowed him to go on because he wanted time to collect himself; but he now interrupted brusquely: "There's no need to make trouble at all. You can tell them there's been a mistake, and they can go on."
Coombe's eyes dropped. He was a youngish man, with a self-confident air, but with something secretive in his appearance and demeanour which seemed to contradict his quiet respectful manner. "I've given them notice, sir, on that telegram," he said. "I couldn't do anything else."
"You ought to have come and seen me first. It seems to me that you've been glad of the opportunity to make trouble."
It was a relief to him to speak like this. He disliked the man who stood before him with his sleek, respectful air, which he suspected to hide hostility that would show itself in insolence if it dared.
"I didn't come to see you about that, sir. My instructions are plain enough from that telegram, and I'd only got to carry them out."
"Then why do you come to me at all?"
"Because I thought you might be able to do something to keep these men from making trouble, sir, as Sir William isn't here. Only two of them belong to Hayslope—Jacksonand Pegg. The others are lodging here. I've paid them their wages, as instructed, and with no work to do they're likely to get drinking and—"
"Oh, it's out of consideration for the good behaviour of the village you've come to me, is it?"
"Yes, sir. And because Sir William isn't here to deal with it."
Colonel Eldridge was getting more and more annoyed with him. But his training prevented his showing more annoyance with men of this class than he could make effectual. "Sir William is your master," he said, "and you are quite right to take your orders from him. But you know perfectly well that it's for me as a magistrate to deal with anything of that sort, whether he is here or not."
"Yes, sir, that's why I have come to you. I only meant that as the men are upset-like at Sir William's turning them off, he might have done something to quiet them."
There was no offence apparent in this. Colonel Eldridge thought for a moment. "The best thing to do is to tell them that there has been a mistake," he said. "They can go back to their work. You can tell them that on my authority, and I'll make it right with Sir William."
Coombe hesitated, and then came plump out with a refusal. "I can't do that, sir, without instructions from Sir William himself."
There was a moment's pause. Coombe kept his eyes on the ground, but his face became a shade paler. Colonel Eldridge looked at him as if he would haveannihilated him, and then turned away, and said quietly: "Very well, then. You can go."
Coombe threw a glance at him, seemed as if he were going to say something further, but went out without a word.
So that was how William had taken his protest! No word to him, but this—it seemed like ill-tempered—order to put an end to the work. His anger was hot against Coombe, whom he accused in his mind of putting him in a hole for the sake of doing so, and then coming to see how he would take it. But towards William his feeling was more one of sorrow.
He had been giving him credit for generosity and kindly feeling. Surely it was unworthy of him to behave in that way, even if he had allowed himself to be unduly annoyed over the tone of the protest made to him. What must have been his attitude when he sent that telegram to his servant, and sent no word to his brother? He must have known that to dismiss his labourers in that way at a moment's notice would make trouble—trouble that would affect his brother who was on the spot. Yet he had left him to find out the high-handed action he had taken for himself. Why couldn't he have given him an opportunity of withdrawing, if he really thought that he had vetoed the undertaking, which had been in hand for a week? Hecouldn'thave thought that; the letter written to him was not a prohibition.
What was to be done now? If that confounded fellow Coombe had come to him before dismissing themen, he would have wired to William and put it all right. Yes, he would have done that, pocketing the hurt to his dignity; for he did recognize that he had given some cause for offence, though William had been in the wrong to take it in the way he had.
Was it too late to do it even now? It was he who had induced the word to be given that had stopped the work, and it was for him to give the word for it to go on. It was simply Coombe's insolence that had refused to take it from him. Coombe would find that he had overstepped the bounds; for he had for the time made it impossible to take the course that his master must wish to have taken. If matters were to be put right, it could only be by sending a long telegram to William. He began to formulate it in his mind. He must say that his letter had not meant that he wished the work to be stopped; he must make it plain that he wanted it to go on; he must say that Coombe had already dismissed the outside labour before telling him of the orders he had received, and had refused to take orders from him to re-engage the men. It would be best to get William to wire to Coombe to act upon Colonel Eldridge's authority until he came to Hayslope himself.
It would be a complete surrender on his part; but he was ready to make it. The mood in which he had entered the house still influenced him; if William chose to act in this way towards him, he would not accept it as an offence without giving him a chance to alter his attitude. They could have it out together when they met; that would be better than writing letters, which were apt to be misunderstood.
He had sat down at his writing-table to compose his message, when the maid came in and said that some men had called to see him. Who were they? One was Jackson, from the Brookside cottages, and another was Pegg, from Crouch Lane. There were two more whom she didn't know. She was told to show them in.
Jackson was an elderly man of good character well known to Colonel Eldridge, who had employed him himself for some years, until he had been obliged to reduce his labour bill. Pegg was a younger man, who had worked on various farms, and since the war, in which he had been wounded, had never remained long in one place, because his small pension, and the greatly increased wages for agricultural labour, had enabled him to indulge his taste for occasional spells of leisure. The other two men were younger still, and one of them wore a discoloured khaki tunic. Colonel Eldridge did not know either of them, but a shrewd glance told him that they were of the agricultural labourer class, probably smartened up a bit by their military service. They stood before him, Jackson slightly in advance.
"Well, Jackson! Well, Pegg! Hope your leg hasn't been giving you any more trouble. Who are these two?"
The man in the khaki tunic answered for himself, smartly. "Thomas Dell, Colonel, late of Second Battalion Downshire Regiment." The other followed suit. "Albert Chambers, Colonel, late of Army Service Corps."
He asked them a few questions about themselves. They had served their country; the soldier in him mustpay tribute to that first of all. They could be seen expanding in modest pride, as they exercised the mode of address they had learnt in the orderly room, standing before their officers as they now stood before him. He approved of them. Men who had served unwillingly in the army and taken their discharge would not have answered him in that way.
"Well, what is it you want? Jackson!"
"We were took on at Mr. William's, beg your pardon, Sir William's, sir, and now we're turned off. It don't seem hardly fair, and we thought we'd come to you about it."
"How were you taken on? By the week?"
"Yes, sir. But—"
"Coombe has just been here, and told me that you've had a week's wages instead of notice. So there's nothing unfair in it."
"Well, sir, we were told that it would be a two month's job. That's what Coombe told us."
"Coombe took you on, I suppose; not Sir William?"
"Yes, sir. It was like this—"
"I've just heard all about it from Coombe. There has been a mistake. When you came in, I was just about to telegraph to Sir William. What you'd better do is to wait till I get an answer, and I've no doubt that to-morrow you'll be going on where you left off. You'll have had a day's holiday at full pay, and you won't have anything to grumble at, eh?"
He said this with a smile. He liked old Jackson, and had often stopped to have a word with him, when he had been employed on estate work, mending a fence, clearinga drain, or whatever job it might be that had to do with the land on which he had worked since boyhood. He was full of homely wisdom; a true son of the soil, with few desires that were not connected with it. Such men appeal to the fatherly instinct that is born in the best type of landowner towards those dependent on him. Their simplicity must be respected; their reliance upon the justice of their "betters" must be met by the most careful consideration of their troubles.
Old Jackson hesitated. "Well, sir," he said, "begging your pardon, we're not wishful to take on work again under Coombe. Sir William, he'd always treat us right, same as you would, if he wasn't too occupied to look after things himself, as I've told these others who've been working along of us. Pegg'll bear me out there."
Pegg bore him out, with a mumble of acquiescence, and Colonel Eldridge waited for him to go on.
"Coombe don't come from these parts," said old Jackson, and came to a stop.
"That's nothing against him, if he acts as he should. What's the complaint against him?"
But Jackson had come to the end of his powers of expression. He could only repeat: "He don't come from these parts."
Dell, in the khaki jacket, took up the tale. "He's desirous of making mischief, sir. We were told, after you came down the other morning, that there'd be trouble about the work we were doing, and if we were turned off of a good job we'd better look to you for another one."
Colonel Eldridge had not expected anything of this sort. But he was sitting in the seat of justice now, and the bearing of such a statement on himself must wait for consideration until later.
"Who was that said to? Tell me the exact words that were said."
Old Jackson found his tongue again. "That's how it was, sir," he said. "There was me and Pegg heard it, and Dell, and another who ain't here. I up and said myself that he'd no call to talk like that of you, and whatever Mr. William done with his land you'd stand by."
"You were quite right there, of course. Was there anything more said, or only just that speech?"
"He told me to go on with my work and not sauce him back, or I could lay down my tools and take myself off. I ain't used to being talked to in that way, sir; and Coombe don't belong to these parts."
"He told Warner, one of the other men took on, sir, that you didn't like Sir William having more money nor what you've got—begging your pardon for reporting his true words—and that if you could stop the work what we was engaged on, you'd do it."
This was from Chambers, the other ex-soldier, and Dell added: "That's right, sir. And he said we could see for ourselves that you were looking ugly about it, and meant mischief."
"That's enough. I don't want to hear any more insolent speeches. If you've just come to repeat that sort of thing to me, I'd rather you had let it alone. Jackson and Pegg are my tenants, though neither ofthem work for me. I dare say they wouldn't like to stand by and let that go on without speaking up. But it would have been better to report it to Sir William, instead of to me. I don't see what it has to do with you two at all."
They showed some surprise at that, for his anger was plain to see, and his gaze was directed straight at them. "I've told you," he said to Jackson, "that I was on the point of wiring to Sir William to ask him to give instructions to Coombe to proceed with the work. That would have meant taking you all on again. If you don't want to be taken on, I can't do anything more for you."
Old Jackson seemed to have nothing further to say, and the two ex-soldiers were still under the influence of the rebuke administered to them. It was Pegg who spoke, with a preparatory clearing of the throat. "Jackson said you was thinking of mending the road through the park, sir."
"Mending the road!"
"It wants doing," said Jackson, speaking now in quite a different tone, as an expert, whose word carries weight. "It wants doing bad. Put it off any longer and 'twill mean laying a new foundation here and there, and steam-rolling and all, when take it in time and a bit of metal will serve. There's a hole by the three oaks that never ought to been allowed to get so. You can maybe patch it up to-day, but I wouldn't answer for what you could do with it to-morrow. Nothing's been done to the road for a matter of five years or more."
"You may call it six," said Colonel Eldridge. "It was mended last in the winter before the war, and it was mostly your doing, Jackson."
"Yes, sir. And there was a tidy bit of metal got out of the lower quarry what we didn't use all of. You'd only have to break it up and lead it; and lead some gravel to put on it. 'Tis true that I did say to Pegg and these two that us four 'ud make a good job of it in four weeks, maybe five—I wouldn't undertake not to make a tidy job of it in less. Put it off and it'll take longer."
Colonel Eldridge sat considering, his eyes on the papers in front of him. "What about the other two who were taken on at the Grange?" he asked.
"They've gone off, sir," said Dell. "They didn't like the job, and wouldn't have stayed anyhow."
"Theyhavegone off? They're not hanging about the village?"
"No, sir. They took their money, and went off by train to Southampton where they belong to the docks."
"Where are you two lodging?"
They told him, and he made no comment, except to say: "If I take you on, you'll have to work under Jackson, and you'll have to keep quiet in the village. A glass or two at the inn I don't mind, but we never have any trouble with drink at Hayslope, and I wouldn't put up with it."
Chambers looked scandalized, and asserted himself to be a teetotaller. Dell said: "I'm a respectable man, Colonel, and if anybody's been putting it about thatI'm otherwise that man's a liar, begging your pardon for the language."
"Very well. I accept what you say. I'll take the four of you on from to-morrow, by the week. What wages were you getting at the Grange?"
They told him, and he said they were too high. "You know that, Jackson. Wages have gone up enormously. I don't grudge them to men like you, who do your work as it ought to be done. But I'm not going to pay more than the current rate. If Coombe took you on at the Grange at the rate you say, he ought not to have done it."
They expressed themselves in their various ways as satisfied with what he offered them, and old Jackson said: "Who am I to take my orders from, sir, now Bridger has gone?"
"You'll take them from me. I'm my own bailiff now. Meet me in half an hour at the three oaks, and I'll settle with you what's to be done."
He wanted a little time for consideration, and when the men had filed out of the room and left him alone, he rose and walked up and down, as his habit was when he had to think anything out.
He wanted to be quite sure that he had done right. The cost of these repairs would be heavy, but the state of the drive would not admit of much further delay, as old Jackson had said, unless it were to become almost impassable here and there, and involve a larger expenditure later on. He had been ashamed of it only half an hour before, when Lord Crowborough had turned off on to the grass of the park to escape the worst place, andshown, by making no comment on it, that he knew why it had been left as it was. He was rather relieved at having had his hand forced about it, for it didn't do to shirk making necessary repairs out of unwillingness to spend money on them at the right time. Only bad landlords did that, and they suffered for it in the long run. The cost would be inconvenient at this moment, but it could be met. Jackson would do the work thoroughly, and he was glad to have the old fellow back in his employ. It might even be worth while to keep him on, for now that he had got rid of his bailiff there was nobody to whom he could delegate any overseeing, and he was more tied than he wanted to be. Pegg was a bit of a rolling stone, but would keep up to the mark as long as the job lasted. The other two seemed good sort of men, and would probably do as well as any.
All that was satisfactory enough; but it wanted thinking about as it affected his relations with William.
The idea of wiring to him in the terms he had intended must be given up. That had settled itself, for the extra labour he had employed was no longer available. Two of the men had gone off, and the other four had refused to continue with it. That was Coombe's fault, without any question. He had always suspected that fellow of being a mischief-maker, and now he stood revealed. The report with which he had come to him had been immediately proved to be absolutely groundless. Of the men of whom he had professed to be so suspicious that it was necessary to come and give a warning—for the good name of the village—two belonged to it—whichhe didn't—and were well known, two had already left it, and from the other two there was nothing to fear. The impudent readiness with which he had turned the few questions of the other morning into a mischievous attack showed him for what he was. Colonel Eldridge hardly felt indignation on account of it. The man had given himself away, and was as good as done with. Whatever their differences, William would never keep in his employ a man who had misbehaved in that way.
Coombe was so patently the fount and origin of the break-up that had come upon William's plans that it was a little difficult to go back to what had given him his handle. When he turned his mind to it, he experienced a droop of spirit. It was his protest that had started the trouble, and he had no inclination to shirk that fact, though it was also true that if William had not received it in the spirit he had, no harm would have been done. He had some effort to put himself in William's place, and did arrive at the conclusion that he had probably not received his letter until his return from his visit that morning, and that hehadprobably written in answer to it, which answer he would receive the next morning. That softened the effect of his peremptory order, but by no means justified it; for unless he had intended to show his annoyance by it, he would surely have sent him a wire at the same time.
The result of his cogitations was that nothing could be done then to mend the matter. He must wait to see if there was a letter from William, and, whether there was or not, it would be better to write no more letters, but to wait further until William came down on Fridayevening, which he usually did. The garden should be made somehow, with another than Coombe to direct it. He wanted to see the garden made now, almost as much as William did.
He went out and made the arrangements with old Jackson, and then again returned to the house, slowly, and with very different thoughts from those which had borne him company on the same road an hour before. He did not want to think any more about the unpleasantness that had come upon him. No doubt it would work itself out, but he did not feel that he was free of it yet. And the vision of the larger freedom that had come to him had faded. He was in no mind now to go to William and ask him for the money that would settle all his difficulties.
After supper, which had taken the place of dinner at Hayslope Hall on these long summer evenings, he walked with his wife in the garden, and told her of what had happened.
She was more disturbed than he had been over William's telegram to Coombe, and his failure to communicate at the same time with him. "You'resureyou didn't actually forbid him to go on?" she asked.
Yes, he was quite sure; but in answer to a further question he could not declare with such certainty that he had not written in a way that could arouse annoyance. "I'm afraid I did express myself rather strongly," he admitted. "But I always have said straight out what I meant to William, and he has never taken it like this. Besides, my impression is that I showed him, in what I wrote afterwards, that I didn'tmean it seriously—or not so seriously as all that. I intended to, anyhow."
"Ah!" she sighed. "You ought to have shown me the letter before you sent it. I could have told you whether it was right or not. I wonder if Eleanor saw this telegram before William sent it! I'm sure to hear from her to-morrow, and I think you are sure to hear from William."
"William ought not to have done it," he said, in a tone of finality. "I can't think that he would have behaved like this a few years ago."
"Oh, my dear, of course he wouldn't."
"Why do you say that?" he asked in some surprise.
"It's quite plain, isn't it? William was nobody much then, compared to you. Now he is a notable, and expects to be treated as such."
"He has never shown that he expected us to treat him any differently."
"Oh, as long as we keep our places, and don't presume."
He did not smile at this. "I didn't know you felt like that about him," he said. "You don't about Eleanor, do you?"
"No. Eleanor has a more level head. I haven't really much fault to find with William either. I was only laughing at him. One does laugh at people who go up in the world, and show themselves so delighted with it, doesn't one? It's the best way to take them, especially if you're not going up in the world yourself. Or perhaps it isn't the best way. I'm not sure. Perhaps it shows you're a little jealous of them. But I'mcertainly not jealous of Eleanor, and I'm sure you're not jealous of William. Poor William! I'm a little sorry for him."
"Sorry for him!"
"Ye—es. His success hasn't improved him. I don't like him as well as I did, and of course I'm sorry for the people I don't like, just as I'm rather inclined to envy the people I do like. I'll tell you what I think about all this bother. I don't believe William has the slightest intention of giving up his garden. He'll expect you to be overcome with remorse at having rebuked him, and beg him to go on. What does it matter to him, paying six men a week's wages, with no work done for it? Add there's no hurry, you know. They weren't going to plant in any case until October. There will be plenty of time to get new men to work at it, and get it finished in time."
"Do you really think that is what he has in his mind? Something of the same sort occurred to me, but I don't want to think such a thing."
"Well, dear, you had much better follow your own ideas about it than mine. You can't expect a woman to take the broad view of something that touches her that a man can. I dare say you're more likely to be right about William than I am. You have always treated him with great forbearance, and until now you have kept good friends with him."
"You do think that—that I've treated him with forbearance?"
She stopped, and with a light laugh, looking up at him, put her hands on his shoulders. "My dear kind-heartedconscientious old man!" she said. "I'll tell you what I think. If you don't make a stand now, William will very soon be everything at Hayslope, and you will be nothing."
Summer rain was falling heavily, and a little party was gathered together in the schoolroom at Hayslope Hall. This was a large room on the second floor, with windows looking two ways, one on to the park, two on to the garden and the woods beyond. There was a glimpse from these windows, through the trees, of some of the roofs and chimneys of the Grange on its opposite hill; and across the park the tower of the church and part of the village could be seen, with a wide stretch of country beyond, and Pershore Castle some miles away, to give accent to a characteristic scene of wooded undulating country, not yet tainted with the blight of industrialism. It was sometimes said that this old nursery, now the schoolroom, was the nicest room in the house. There were no such views to be obtained from those of the lower floors, but the views did not make up the whole of its charm. It had that of all rooms in an old house that have been devoted to the use of children. Changes in furniture or decoration come to them slowly. Everything that they contain has made its indelible impression upon the minds of those who have occupied them in the most receptive years of their lives, and are woven into the texture of their memories. They have witnessed the troubles of childhood; but these fade away and are forgotten, orremembered only as part of the immensely significant and varied experiences of that age, merging into the rest and carry no sting. They do not associate themselves with graver troubles, and to those who came back to them they seem to be a refuge from all the ills of life, so innocent are the pursuits with which they are connected, so free are they from the cares and forebodings associated with other familiar rooms.
This note of freedom and innocence was grateful to Fred Comfrey, who had been welcomed to this room by Alice and Isabelle, its present occupants, Miss Baldwin acquiescing. Fred had "taken notice" of Alice and Isabelle, for reasons not difficult to gauge. He had never cared much for children, and one would have said that he had no power to interest or attract them. But his absence of art probably recommended him to these two, who would not have liked him so well if he had been either jocular or condescending with them. He treated them in the same way as he treated Judith, who was grown up. Judith did not like him, but they did, and presently began to make use of him.
On this wet Saturday morning, when there were no lessons to be done, they were engaged in restoring an old toy theatre, which had once belonged to Hugo. Alice had composed a play, which was to be acted by figures designed by Isabelle. These had been cut out with a fretsaw, and coloured; and together they had glued them on to their stands. But the theatre itself, after having lain hidden for years in a lumber room, needed more serious repair than came within their scope. Fred was a godsend in this predicament, andwas doing all that was necessary, with a capable hand. Pamela and the children were helping, arrayed all three in blue overalls, which as worn by Pamela seemed to Fred to be the most attractive costume that a girl could wear. Miss Baldwin sat apart, busy with needlework on her own account. Her presence had no effect upon the flow of chatter. She hardly came into the children's lives except as a reminder and concomitant of duty, and they were well accustomed to ignore her when amusement was on foot. Judith also sat apart, curled up on the deep shabby old sofa with a book, and oblivious to everything around her. Her enjoyment probably was enhanced by the sense of being in company, or she would have betaken herself elsewhere.
Miss Baldwin, however, was far more alive to what was going on than anybody there could have imagined. Unnoticed, she marked every look and every word. For romance was going on, here under her very eyes, and she could fit it all in to her ideas of how a story of romance should run.
There was the sweet young girl brought up in the seclusion of her country home, untouched as yet by the wand of love; there were two men eager to break the spell that held her; and one of them was a lord. Pamela had no idea how much Miss Baldwin, prim and plain and scholastic, admired her. Judith she had taught for a year, and Judith was just a schoolgirl to her, like any other, although she was now grown up, and as beautiful in her way as Pamela. Pamela seemed to her the very type of well-born maidenhood, beautiful and gay, and kind and gentle in her speech andin her ways. She could weave stories around her, and longed for the time when the suitors should come thronging. Upon Norman's first appearance she had cast him for the part of hero, and well he would have filled it but for the fact of his cousinhood. He was young and gay and handsome too, and a soldier. But she soon saw him as taking the place towards the girls of their brother, who had been killed. He might come into the story later, but not as a suitor.
Two suitors had now appeared on the field, almost at the same time. It might have been thought that Miss Baldwin would have favoured the lord, who, upon his first appearance at Hayslope, had actually ridden over on a horse, from his battlemented castle—or rather from his father's, which came to the same thing. But Horsham did not conform to her ideas of a lord, in spite of the horse and the castle. His looks were not on a level with Pamela's, and though he had youth on his side, she could not describe it to herself as gallant youth. He had addressed himself to her when he had first lunched at Hayslope, and with courtesy; but it had been to ask her whether she thought Edinburgh or Liverpool had the more easterly aspect. Suspecting some sort of catch, she had replied coldly in favour of Edinburgh, and it had appeared that she was wrong. That didn't matter; but the question seemed unworthy of one of his rank. She would rather that he had ignored her, as the meek silent drudge, in the family but not of it, and beneath the notice of such as he. He seemed to be well-meaning and well-educated—his conversation had been largely geographical. ButMiss Baldwin was not content in a lord with qualities that would have graced a schoolmaster.
Did she then favour the suit of Fred Comfrey, whose desires lay open to her? She did. He was a son of the vicarage, who had gone out into the world at an early age to carve his own way in it; and from what she had heard, he seemed to some extent already to have carved it. He had given up everything to fight in the war, had fought like a hero—as far as she knew—and received honourable wounds, from which he had not yet entirely recovered. His square ugly face and his broad frame spelt POWER. If he was not quite the strong silent man—for he talked a good deal, and rather nervously—he might become so, under trial. He was still young, though he had done so much. He paid attention to her, and rather embarrassed her by so doing; for she did not wish to be talked to in company, having little to say in reply. But his reasons for doing so were obvious, and she approved of them. If she could have brought herself to tell him that she saw everything and wished him well, her tongue might have been unloosed in a way to surprise him. But that, of course, was impossible, though she sometimes played with the idea of the unconsidered governess putting everything right by a bashfully whispered word to the ever-after-grateful hero.
She did more than play with the idea of things going wrong. She expected and longed for it, but only as a preliminary to their eventually going right. Nobody but herself seemed yet to have awakened to what was going on. When they did, who could doubt that itwould be the lord who would be preferred by the parents, and the other who would be sent about his business—perhaps with contumely? She rather hoped with contumely, for then he would have an opportunity of showing what stuff he was made of, and it would be so much more interesting. Oh, if only Pamela could have her eyes opened before the discovery came! If he had made no impression on her, she would, of course, accept his dismissal at the hands of her parents with complete equanimity, and the story would simply fizzle out.
That was why Miss Baldwin watched the pair of them so closely, as with their heads almost touching they bent over their common task, and the talk flowed, with never a ripple that she could discern to disturb it, and give it a deeper meaning. There were signs inhisspeech and looks of what she wanted to see, but she had got used to that by this time. It was like carrying on for too long with a chapter that had already told its tale. She wanted the next one, in which Pamela was to show the signs. Sometimes she thought it might be beginning; but it never did. Pamela had not even seen yet what had become so plain. Her friendliness could not be misunderstood. There was no hint of self-consciousness in it; or if Miss Baldwin sometimes thought that she caught a hint of her awakening, it soon died away again. She was forced to believe that Pamela was as yet fancy-free.
But here, unexpectedly, was a factor introduced into the story of which she had lost sight. Sitting at the window, and looking up just at the right moment, shesaw Norman come out into the garden, from the wood which lay between the Hall and the Grange. He was buttoned up at neck and sleeves in a rain-coat, and the brim of his soft felt hat was pulled down over his face. He carried an ash sapling, which he was swishing about as if he were conducting an orchestra. In imagination he may have been, for he was a musical enthusiast. He was walking very fast, and there was something in his appearance that appealed to Miss Baldwin's imagination, which within its limits had the same artistic enthusiasm as his. For a moment he presented himself to her as the third suitor, whose success—after vicissitudes to be undergone—was finally to be hoped for. But the idea was rejected as soon as formulated. There was no story in it, for it was difficult to see where the vicissitudes were to come from. Besides, the cousinship held. She could not see Norman and Pamela as lovers.
There was material for Miss Baldwin in Norman's first meeting with Fred. He came into the room with a breezy, high-spirited air, which changed completely as he caught sight of Fred sitting at the table, intent upon his task, with Pamela's head very near to his, and Isabelle's still nearer. Only she saw this; for he had burst into the room unannounced, and by the time heads were raised his expression had changed again, though not to that of eager pleasure with which he had entered. He shook hands with Fred, if not cordially, with no marked hostility, and said a few words to him before answering the inquiries that were showered upon him by the others.
No, they had not meant to come down to the Grange this week. His father had gone to stay with some old duffer who wanted to talk politics with him. His mother had been going too, but wasn't very fit. He had turned up the night before in London, and persuaded her to let him motor her down. He had come to ask if Aunt Cynthia and Pamela would come to luncheon.
Miss Baldwin's eyes were on the strong silent man-to-be during this passage. He did not quite fulfil her expectations, for he looked almost as if he were ashamed at having been caught. This might mean that he knew he would have to face opposition from Pamela's cousin, which Miss Baldwin would not have expected him to divine at so early a stage. But she would have liked him to hold up his head higher, while for the moment he was apart from the centre of the scene. The silence was there, but not the strength; he looked merely awkward.
She waited until attention was upon him again. Norman's first look of dislike had impressed her, and contained promise of drama. It looked as if these two had crossed each others' path before; but that could hardly be, for she knew by this time that Fred had been carving his way to fortune in foreign climes and had not for years visited the home-land. They had met in boyhood; but any differences of opinion they might have had then would not have amounted to crossing each other's path. She came, somewhat reluctantly, to the conclusion that there was nothing more in it than what she expected; dislike on the part of Pamela'srelations to the idea of her being wooed by the vicar's self-made son, when once they woke up to the possibility of such a thing. Norman had apparently woke up to it instantly. Of that she gained assurance, as he talked to Fred about his experiences in the war, and other matters, in a way unlike his usual open sociable manner of speech, which showed plainly, to her at least, that dislike was behind it all. It seemed to her that Pamela was aware of the hostility, and deprecated it. She helped Fred, and pointed for him the modesty of some of his replies. She even seemed to suggest that he should be included in the invitation to luncheon; but Norman did not respond to the suggestion, and when she went off to find her mother he went with her, as if he did not want to be left with Fred; and when he said good-bye to him he made no proposal of their meeting again. His attitude, indeed, was so significant that even the children noticed it. For Alice said: "Norman seems to have something on his mind. I don't think he's liking us as much as usual." And Isabelle added: "Perhaps he's in love. It takes them like that, doesn't it, Miss Baldwin?"
Miss Baldwin made a suitable reply, to the effect that Isabelle should go on with what she was doing, and not ask silly questions. The children, of course, knew of her taste for fiction, but were not enough interested in her to make it the subject of more than an occasional allusion of this sort, with which she could cope by assuming her rôle of instructress. Fred took his departure soon afterwards. Perhaps he had some hope of coming across Pamela in another part of thehouse. Perhaps he was too dispirited to go on with what he was doing with Pamela gone. There was a marked drop in his air of contentment during the short time he remained, and he did not respond to the chatter of the children with his usual complacency. Oh, no doubt the affair was in train of development now, and a new chapter might fairly be said to have begun.
It was not until after luncheon that Norman and Pamela were alone together. Rain was still falling, and they went into the billiard-room, but did not immediately begin the game which they usually played on such occasions. Norman had recovered his spirits, never for very long obscured, but his first words, as he shut the door behind him, were: "I say, old girl, it was rather a shock to find that fellow making himself at home with you this morning. I don't think you ought to accept him into the bosom of the family in that way. Really, he's a most awful outsider."
Perhaps Pamela had been giving the subject some consideration, in preparation for some such attack. She affected no surprise at it, but said: "I know you don't like him. I'm not particularly anxious that you should, or I might have been annoyed at the way you treated him this morning. But do leave us alone about him. We're going to be nice to him as long as he stays here. Father and mother want us to, for one thing. Anyhow, it's nothing to do with you. Now tell me about Margaret."
"Oh, I'll tell you all about Margaret when the time comes. It's partly what I came down for. But, Pam dear, do take a word of warning about that fellow.It's easy enough to see that he's trying to worm himself in. It isn't exactly his technique, you know, to play the kind elder to children. Of course it's you he's after. Excuse my speaking plainly, but I do know about these things. It's calculated to make one sick—the idea of a creature like that making up to you."
She replied, with slightly heightened colour, but in the same level kindly tone: "It's awfully sweet of you to be so careful about me, Norman dear; but your vivid imagination is running away with you. There's nothing of that sort going on, and if there were I could deal with it perfectly well myself."
"No, you couldn't," he said firmly. "You think you know a lot, but you know very little. You don't know anything at all about a man of that sort, thank goodness! Of course I know that you're ratty at my talking about it at all, although you pretend not to be. So I won't go on. I've given you my warning, and if you're wise you'll pay attention to it."
"It's very sweet of you, as I said before; and I'm not in the least ratty. And if I don't know something about all that sort of thing by this time, I ought to, for you never talk about anything else. Now talk about it in connection with Margaret."
"Ah! Youareratty. But you can't makeme. If my wisdom and self-control weren't equal to my perceptions, supported by a life-time experience, I should reiterate my warnings. As it is, I stop short—like that!"
He gave a snap of his fingers, and stood staring at her, his hand lifted, until she was obliged to laugh."You're a donkey," she said. "Now tell me about Margaret."
"Ah! Margaret!" he said. "You observe that I speak with a lingering intonation, Pam. It represents the tender emotion which stirs my bosom whenever I utter that sweet name. But unfortunately, I haven't seen her again; I have only been feeding on her memory—her sweet and ducal memory."
"Oh, then that means that you have seen somebody else. I did think that it meant something at last—not a great deal, but still something. Who has cut her out?"
"Pam dear, how crude you are! I should say coarse if it were anyone else. Cut her out! As if anybody could cut her out! No, she remains the one and only. Margaret! Her very name is music. But I told you, didn't I, that her father was a Duke?"
"Oh, yes, you told me that. It is one of the few things I know about her—and that she's a sort of highbrow, though not devoid of good looks."
"A highbrow! Sometimes I think you've no soul, Pam. Margaret isnota highbrow, any more than you are. But she is the daughter of a Duke; and it has occurred to me that in pursuing the daughter of a Duke I may be laying myself open to misconceptions."
"Yes, I see. But I wish you'd come to the point and tell me who the other girl is."
They had been standing by the window. Norman turned away, and said in a different voice: "Let's sit down. I want to tell you something."
They sat on a sofa by the fireplace. Norman lit apipe. "I say, Pam," he said, "did you ever think of Dad as a sort of millionaire?"
"What a funny question! What is asortof millionaire? I suppose I've always known that he has plenty of money. What is the bearing of the question?"
"You know I've been having a week's sail on the Broads, with a couple of pals. We've had a topping time. I'll tell you about it later on. One of the fellows was Dick Baskerville, a son of Lord Ledbury, who's Minister for something or other—I've forgotten what—and the other was Eric Blundell, one of those blokes who seems to know everybody and everything that's going on. They were both at Eton with me, and both in the regiment. Dick's in it still, and Eric's at Cambridge. We'd always chaffed each other about our respective anginas, and...."
"What do you mean—anginas?"
"Heart troubles. Both of them had tumbled to Margaret, and brought her up against me. I didn't deny the soft impeachers; in fact I was rather pleased at it. When your time comes, you'll see how that works out. But by and by they began to talk about it as if it were something quite serious."
"Sweet youths!" interpolated Pam.
"Oh, there was nothing wrong with them. I mean that they began to talk about marriage, and the right sort of match, and all that sort of thing."
"I should have thought you'd have been rather pleased with that."
"Why? Because she's the daughter of a Duke?I shouldn't have thoughtyouwould have taken that line."
He looked pained. "I don't, really," said Pam soothingly. "Did they?"
"Oh, not in any way that you could object to. I mean they wouldn't have thought I was making up to her because of that. But—well, the long and the short of it is that I seemed to present myself to their minds as the son of a man who's so rich that I can afford to make up to anybody. That's what's disturbing me."
She bent her mind to it. "Really, I don't quite see," she said, with sympathy. "If it does come to that—that you want to marry her—wouldn't it make it easier?"
"I suppose I should be glad that money didn't stand in the way. But I don't quite like it, all the same. Dad seems to be quite well known, as a man who has made pots of money, and may be made a peer himself, or anything he likes—not because of his money—I don't mean that exactly—but because he has made himself so useful to them. What I didn't like was the sort of suggestion that he made a pot during the war. I know he didn't, and I told them so. Of course they said that they had never imagined anything of that kind—seemed shocked at the very idea. But I'm pretty certain that the idea is going about, and I don't like it a bit. Anyhow,I'mnot going to exhibit myself as a joyous young bounder who thinks he can do anything he likes because he's the son of a rich man. I don't believe Dadisas rich as all that, and I told them so. I said I supposed they were leading up to asking meto back bills for them. We left it on that note. But it's rather disturbing, isn't it?"
"Not very, Norman dear. I shouldn't let it worry you.Iknow perfectly well that you'd be just the same if Uncle Bill were as poor as a church mouse; and everybody would be just as pleased to see you."
"Dear old girl!Youknow that I shouldn't found myself on money; but everybody doesn't. I shall have to be a bit careful, if it's really like that. I think I shall put it to Dad myself. He's not like that, either. He likes work, and he's made a big success of it because he's so clever, and sound. It's hard luck if people have got hold of a wrong idea of him."
"You're always telling me that I know nothing; but I do know as much as that—that rich people are apt to be misunderstood. Still,weknow him, so what does it matter? What is the bearing of it all upon Margaret?"
"The bearing of it on Margaret—name that melts my very heart-strings—is that I shall go slow for a time, and see how things turn out. If she weren't a Duke's daughter, I should let myself rip. As it is, I'm not so sure."
Lady Eldridge was as direct in her speech and her ways as any woman could be. Yet it did not seem possible to her to embark directly upon the subject of which her mind was full, when Norman and Pamela had gone off, and she and her sister-in-law were left alone together. Clothes were the topic which Mrs. Eldridge seemed eager to discuss, and as if it were the one upon which she had only been waiting to unburden herself. Lady Eldridge allowed herself to drift with the stream, until some landing-place should appear upon which she could set her foot. She was used to humouring Cynthia in this way, who was not easily diverted from any subject in which she was interested, though she would pursue it with many amusing twists and turns, and never made her longest speeches tiresome to listen to. She seemed to be full of spirit this afternoon, and made Lady Eldridge laugh more than once, though she was increasingly anxious to come to terms with her upon the question which must surely be disturbing them both equally.
For nothing had been heard from Hayslope in answer to William's letter. Coombe had written to say that he had paid off the labour, according to instructions, and that was all. She had summoned him that morning on her arrival at the Grange, about plants and flowersfor the house, and he had volunteered the information that most of the men who had been working at the garden had been taken on by Colonel Eldridge. This had given her an unpleasant shock, but she had made no comment upon it to him, nor encouraged him to any further disclosures. She had divined from his manner that he was hostile to her brother-in-law, and did not want to hear about what had been happening from him first; nor to let him see that she knew nothing.
At last she found an opening. "Cynthia dear," she said, "I must talk to you about the garden. You must remember that I know nothing yet of what has happened since William wrote."
Mrs. Eldridge did not lay aside the light manner in which she had been carrying on the conversation. "Well, dear," she said, "if you must talk about it I suppose you must. But it's such a tiresome business altogether that I should have thought it would have been better to leave it to the two men. If they are going to fall out about such a thing, I'm sure you and I needn't; and of course they will come together again."
Lady Eldridge thought for a moment. "Ofcourseyou and I shan't fall out about it," she said with decision. "But it must have gone a good deal farther than it ought to have done for you to think of such a thing. Why didn't Edmund answer William's letter?"
"Well, there's no difficulty in answering that. His first letter to William seemed to have been so misunderstood that he thought it better not to write any more, but to wait till he came down. Of course hedidn't know that he wasn't coming down this week, or perhaps hewouldhave written. I think he was quite right, you know. I advised him myself, when he wrote first of all, not to show irritation. I'm afraid the poor old darling must have done so, and unfortunately he didn't show me what he had written before he sent it. Oh, I think it's so much betternotto write letters which may be misunderstood. I didn't answer yours for the same reason, though I knowyouwouldn't misunderstand. Well, perhaps that wasn'tquitethe reason. I didn't want to mix myself up in it."
Lady Eldridge's spirits had lightened during the course of this speech. "I'm so glad it was like that," she said. "I thought it must have been something of the sort. But do you mean that Edmund didn't want William to give up making the garden?"
"Of course he didn't. He only thought he ought to have been consulted first. I'm bound to say I thought he had been, and I told him so. I was as much in it as you were, in a sort of way. I was interested in the scheme, as you know.Icertainly didn't want it given up, and I was disappointed when William threw it all over."
"But—Edmund did object, you know; and pretty strongly. I saw his letter. William felt that he couldn't go on, in the face of that."
"Ye—es. But Edmund would have told him that he hadn't meant him to stop, if he had been given the chance. Men do act hastily when they are a little upset with one another; but it was a pity that William took up the attitude he did, I think. With just alittleconsideration for Edmund's feelings the trouble would have blown over entirely. Now I'm afraid there is quite a lot to put straight, and it has tried Edmund very much."
"I don't understand it, Cynthia. William wired at once to have the work stopped, according to what he thought were Edmund's wishes. It was a good deal to do under the circumstances, and what could he have done more? Surely, Edmund could easily have put it all straight by firing back that William had misunderstood him, and then—"
"Wiring back, dear! William didn't wire to Edmund. He took no notice of Edmund at all. The first Edmund knew was that Coombe came to tell him that he had dismissed the men. After that whatcouldhe do?"
"What he seems to have done was to take the men on himself."
"I'm rather sorry he did do that, because of course he can't afford it, and it will only add to his worries, poor dear! Still, there they were dismissed at a moment's notice, in a fit of temper, you might say, and—"
"Oh,no, Cynthia. It wasn't so. You mustn't say that."
"My dear child, we must be reasonable on both sides if we are to talk it over at all. I've admitted quite frankly on my part that Edmund was hasty in what he first wrote to William, and you ought to admit on yours that William acted in the same way."
"But, Cynthia dear, Iknow. Williamwasannoyed,but after he had talked it all over he got rid of his annoyance. Iknowthat it had passed when he wrote."
"Very well, then. But if that is so you must admit that he took an unfortunate way of showing it. To dismiss the men off-hand by wire, to let Edmund hear of it first from Coombe, and then—"
"I do admit that that was unfortunate. I'm quite sure that it never occurred to him—it didn't to me—that it would look as if—"
"And then his letter the next morning! That put Edmund's back up more than anything."
Lady Eldridge threw out her hands in a gesture of despair. "Oh, I give it up," she said. "Everything seems to have been taken in the wrong way. I did think that two brothers who have been so much to each other as Edmund and William ought to be able to settle an absurd dispute of this sort without all this misunderstanding."
"That's exactly what I think. And if you and I are to mix ourselves up in it at all, we ought to try to clear up the misunderstandings."
"Yes, I want to do that. Tell mewhyWilliam's letter should have put Edmund's back up more than anything."
"It's rather difficult, you see. You mustn't be impatient with me. You know that I am very fond of William, but you can't expect me to see him in quite the same light as you do, any more than you can see Edmund in the same light as I do. And you must remember that I'm trying to make peace all the time. Still, I see things with Edmund's eyes to some extent,and after what had happened the day before I don't think it was unreasonable of him to object to being told in so many words that William couldn't be expected to take seriously things thathethought so important, especially Hayslope, which was only a very small corner of the world."
"Oh, Cynthia, what an absurd coil it all is! Williamcan'thave written that. I know the mood he was in when he went away to write."
"Well, dear, he did write it, and you must forgive me for saying that that attitude in him is continually coming out. This bother about the garden is only a symptom of it. It is the attitude itself that so annoys Edmund. I know that William is much higher up in the world now than my poor old man. But he ought not to want to rub it in, Eleanor. After all, Edmundisthe older brother, and the head of the family. You can't defend William tellinghimthat Hayslope is of very little importance. It's all he has in the world. Poor dear, he did his duty as a soldier during the war. I'm not saying he didmorethan William; but just look at the difference in the rewards they have got! Edmund will be a poor man for the rest of his life, because of the war, while William is rich and honoured."
"He isn't richbecauseof the war."
"Oh, no! I don't mean that at all. I should never say such a thing, or think it. And as for his knighthood, one knows that honours are given to the men who do the sort of work that he did, while a soldier's work is just taken as a matter of course.Youknow that it would never occur to me to feel jealousy on thatscore, which is why I can put it quite plainly. Edmund doesn't feel it either, and he is proud of William's success; he has often said so. But still,here, Edmund ought not to be considered of less account than William. There! I have said it quite plainly, and you mustn't be offended."
"No, I'm not offended; though it makes me rather sad that all that should have to be said, because it is practically the same as William says himself, and tries to act upon. He did so in this very matter of the garden; but see how it has turned out! Edmund takes it as an offence that he should instantly have carried out what he thought were his wishes."
"But did he really mean to give up the garden, Eleanor? I will tell you frankly now, as we have gone so far, that Edmund's idea is that he hoped he would beg him not to.Youwrote to me, you know, asking me to influence Edmund to do that."
"Not quite, Cynthia. At least—well—"
"You did, dear; and I should have tried to make the peace in that way, if it hadn't gone so far. I'm afraid you must admit that William acted hastily—I don't say more than that—and if hedidexpect Edmund to climb down, as Edmund believes—well, that's just exactly the spirit that I've been trying to point out to you is so objectionable to Edmund."
"Oh, it's all so different, Cynthia, from what happened on our side. Climb down! There was no such idea in William's mind.Can'twe get it straight? Supposing William apologizes to Edmund for anything that may have displeased him! I believe he would beready to do that. And you mustn't forget Edmund's first letter to him, which you have acknowledged yourself—and I saw—was very dictatorial, and even offensive, though perhaps it was not meant to be so."
"Offensive! No, I shouldn't quite admit that."
"You say you didn't see it, dear. Among other things, he accused William of vulgarity."
"Vulgarity!" Mrs. Eldridge showed some surprise. "Well, of course that would be rather strong. But—"
"William is careless about Edmund's position here, you say. Very well. He doesn't mean to be, and perhaps Edmund doesn't mean to be dictatorial. But he is, you know, towards William; and considering the high estimation in which William is held, and the kind of people he mixes with, upon equal terms, itissometimes rather difficult to put up with."
"Isn't all that rather apt to be pressed home upon us, dear? Not by you—I don't mean that. Naturally you are proud of the estimation in which William is held. I should be myself if I were in your place. But Edmund feels, I think, that he might be spared some of William's reminders on that point. In the very letter he wrote about the garden, in which he said that Hayslope couldn't be expected to be of such importance to him as it was to Edmund, he prepared the way by telling him of all the great people he was consorting with—as you say, upon equal terms."
"Which is exactly what I did, when I wrote to you after we had come back from Wellsbury. Wewerethere on equal terms, you know; we didn't dine in the servants' hall."
"Oh, my dear, you mustn't take it in that way, or we may as well leave off talking about it altogether.Ididn't show annoyance when you accused Edmund just now of being dictatorial and offensive. Don't letusfall out with one another, oreverything is lost."
Lady Eldridge sat more erect in her chair. "Wemustend it all," she said. "Neither you nor I want it to go on. Let us leave off finding faults in the other side, and admit that both sides have made mistakes. Itwasunfortunate that William should have wired to Coombe, and sent no message to Edmund at the same time. It's easy enough to see that now; but at the time it didn't occur to me, who was very anxious that offence should not be given, and I'm sure it didn't occur to William. I have told you, anyhow, that his resentment over Edmund's letter had passed over; sothatcan be cleared out of the way. Edmund need think no more about it. Now let us get William's mistake cleared out of the way. Tell Edmund that it was only carelessness on William's part that led to this new trouble, thatImuch regret it, now it has been pointed out to me, and that I'm sure William will when he knows the effect it had. Will you do that, Cynthia?"
"Yes, dear, of course I will. Don't let us have any more letters. Let us wait until you come down again next week, and then Edmund and William can talk it all over together, and I'm sure at the end of it they will be as good friends as before."
Lady Eldridge breathed an audible sigh of relief, and smiled. "Wehave talked pretty plainly to oneanother," she said. "I am so glad that we can. What a lot of trouble that unfortunate garden plan of ours has made! And it looked as if we were all going to amuse ourselves so much with it."
"Oh, and I hope we shall. Do you know, I think Edmund is as much disappointed at the idea of its being given up as anybody. I haven't told you yet—we seem to have been talking about all sorts of outside things—that hewasgoing to send a long telegram to William asking him to go on with it, evenafterCoombe had come to him and refused to take his orders."
Lady Eldridge seemed quite at a loss. She stared at her and said quietly: "No, you never told me that. I didn't know that Coombe had been to Edmund at all."
"How did you think he knew, then, that the men had been paid off? You haven't done my poor old Edmund quite justice, you know, Eleanor—but I don't want to begin on that again. He was naturally upset at hearing of it first from Coombe, andyethe was going to wire to William. In fact, he was going to climb down."
Lady Eldridge passed this by with a slight contraction of the brows. "What prevented him from writing?" she asked.
"Oh, I haven't told you that. The labourers who had been dismissed came to him, and said they wouldn't go on working under Coombe. I'm afraid William will have to get rid of that man, Eleanor. The way he has behaved is perfectly outrageous. In fact, but for him, the garden might have been half finished by this time."
There was a moment's pause. Then Lady Eldridge said: "This is something quite new again. You must tell me everything, please, Cynthia."