"I wanted to ask your advice."
Colonel Eldridge stood in front of the empty fireplace, filling his pipe; Fred was in one of the shabby leather easy chairs, smoking a cigarette. The room was very quiet and retired, looking on to a corner of lawn surrounded by banked rhododendrons, under the shade of a great hornbeam.
Colonel Eldridge seemed to have some difficulty in coming to the point. He put the lid carefully on his old lead tobacco box, and lit his pipe from a box of matches on the mantelpiece before he spoke again.
"You and Hugo were friends together as boys," he said.
"Oh, yes. And we wrote to one another once or twice after I went abroad. I only just missed him once when we were on the Somme. I wish I'd seen him before he was killed."
"Well, I don't suppose you know that he gave us a lot of trouble, poor fellow. At least, you may have heard something. I needn't go into it all; it was mostly about money. He was very extravagant, and raced and gambled and all that. He was young; he'd have got over it in time, and settled down, I've no doubt. He did his job well enough; I've got a letter from his Colonel, which I was very glad to have."
He went on for a time, again apparently finding it difficult to come to the point. He did so suddenly, and it was not exactly the point that Fred had anticipated, from his introduction.
"The fact is, I want to raise some money," he said, "four hundred pounds."
"Yes," said Fred, at random. "That ought to be easy enough."
"Well, it isn't so easy in these days." He sat down in the chair opposite to Fred's, and spoke with more freedom now. "I've paid a good deal on Hugo's account," he said. "Claims have kept coming in, and I thought we had come to the end of them. But I had another a few days ago. I've been puzzling my head how I was to meet it. I've got to meet it, in fact I've undertaken to do so early next week. I don't want to go to my lawyers."
He came to a stop again. Fred's thoughts were very busy. What was going to be asked of him? Why couldn't Colonel Eldridge go to his lawyers about a sum so small as this for a man of his property? He had no words at his command for the moment. His business instincts and habits were too strong for him not to feel slightly, though unwillingly, on the defensive.
But fortunately none were required of him just yet. "I don't know what to tell you first," Colonel Eldridge said. "Perhaps I'd better tell you everything, though I'll keep back names."
He took a letter out of his pocket, and opened it. Fred cast surreptitious glances, but the letter was held so that he could not see it.
"This is from the mother of a brother officer of Hugo's, who was killed—some time after he was. She has found among his papers an I. O. U. of Hugo's for four hundred pounds; she encloses it. She writes quite nicely. She has kept it some time, not knowing quite what to do about it. She doesn't want the money; but she thinks it ought to be paid. She would give it to some charity in her son's name."
"An I. O. U.?" said Fred. "I suppose you've satisfied yourself—"
Colonel Eldridge cut him short. "Oh, I quite agree with her," he said. "I don't know her, by the by, and I suppose Hugo didn't either, or she would have said something about him—not only in connection with this, I mean. There's no need to ask what the transaction was. Very likely, I'm afraid, it was a card debt, or something of that sort. Anyhow, the money was owing from him, and is owing from me now. Her way of dealing with it is the best. I've promised to send her a cheque next week."
It seemed to Fred foolish to have done so, but it was no good saying that. "There's nothing, I suppose, to come out to Hugo's detriment," he said. "If you pay it without question it ought to be understood that it isn't talked about."
"As far as she is concerned, I should think she'd want it talked about as little as I should. If they were gambling together it might just as well have been her son who had owed it. But you've put your finger on the trouble, as it happens.Idon't want it talked about, outside this room. The fact is that poor Hugo's delinquencieshave brought about a state of feeling towards him that gives me great pain. He did some very foolish things—bad things, you may say, if you like—and they've been exaggerated into things that he never would have done. I quarrelled with one of my oldest friends about it. He took back what he said, and we've come together again, I'm glad to say. I've got Hugo's good name to consider. My brother William has known everything so far, and he has been very good about it. I've had to raise money to pay off what has been owing—it's a very large sum in all—and I couldn't have done it without his co-operation, now that he's in remainder to this property. But I know quite well that he takes a worse view of Hugo than I think he's justified in taking. I can't—I simply can't go to him about this, though it's a mere flea-bite compared to what has had to be paid already."
He seemed to have forgotten for the moment that he had cut himself off from going to his brother about anything. And he had not told Fred that the date upon the claim he had to meet was that same black date as had seen the transaction over which Lord Crowborough had brought his disgraceful accusations against Hugo—accusations which he had been forced to withdraw. The hornet's nest must not be stirred again. "No, he mustn't know of this," he said. "And my lawyers mustn't know of it, for if they did, he would."
"You couldn't—?"
"My dear Fred, I've been so confoundedly hit by the war, and all this coming on the top of it, that I simply couldn't raise a hundred pounds at this moment, letalone four hundred, without some sort of property adjustment. And that would mean disclosing everything, which I won't do if I can possibly help it. But I've thought of this. I'm always getting money-lender's circulars. You know the sort of things, of course. I'm not such a fool as to suppose that I can borrow money in that way on anything like an ordinary rate of interest. But I'd pay very heavily to get this money at once, with no security but my word for repayment. Have you ever had any dealings with these people? I know young fellows do. I might quite well have done it myself, but as a matter of fact I never did. Hugo did, and they fleeced him unmercifully. I don't want to be fleeced; but I can do what they always seem to want, and that is pay by regular instalments. My income is pretty well fixed now for some time to come. It's a tight fit already, and this will make it tighter, but what I can do is to pay two hundred a year until I've cleared it off, with the interest."
Fred was ready with his answer. His brain worked quickly in questions of this kind, and he knew his man—or thought he did.
"Don't go to those sharks," he said. "It's perfectly easy. I can find you the money at once. The interest would have to be ten per cent, I think, but—"
"I don't wantyouto lend me the money, you know."
Fred had thought that he did, and thought so still. But, of course, a man in his position would want the decencies observed. "I hadn't thought of that," he said. "But as a matter of fact it would suit me very well to do it. I've got rather more than that lying idle—gratuities,and so on—and I couldn't get ten per cent on it without taking some trouble, and even then it would be more risky than this. Really, it would be the easiest way, sir, and I should be glad of the opportunity."
"Oh, you could get more than ten per cent, lending money without security. I shouldn't offer security, you know. To do that, I should have to go to my lawyers."
"Your word is security enough for me, sir. I couldn't have a better wherever I went, and I've been meaning to go somewhere for the last month or more. I'm a business man. I don't like having money doing nothing. This would be a business deal for me, and at ten per cent a good one. I say nothing about obliging you. It would give me great pleasure to do it, but I should think it rather cheek to offer it on that account."
Under all the circumstances, known to Fred but unknown to Colonel Eldridge, it was considerable cheek as it was. One of the circumstances was that Fred hadn't got four hundred pounds lying idle, or even forty. He wasn't that kind of man.
"It's kind of you to say that," said Colonel Eldridge. "Let me think it over for a moment."
He sat upright in his chair, which was not a deep one like Fred's, and looked into the empty grate, with no expression on his face that could be interpreted. Fred's opinion of him lowered itself somewhat. What was the good of keeping up this farce? Of course he would accept. He was lucky to have such a chance offered him. And Fred was lucky to be able to offer it, to Pamela's father.
Colonel Eldridge turned his quiet direct eyes upon him. "It's a very kind offer on your part," he said. "For which I'm grateful. But I don't see my way to accepting it."
Fred did not understand in the least, but knew somehow that it would be waste of time to press his offer.
"I'm sorry," he said. "But tell me how I can help you in any way."
Again he looked away, considering. "I'm afraid," he said, with a little wry smile at Fred, "that I hadn't thought it out very clearly. You knew my poor Hugo. There's no one I can talk to about him quite plainly."
Fred didn't understand the bearings of this either, but he recognized a call upon his sympathy, to which he made haste to respond. His feelings were cold towards the memory of Hugo; and he was stirred to no generous impulse towards the man who had given him a glimpse of his loneliness and come to him, of all people, to relieve it. But he had done well for himself, with Pamela, in taking her father's side, and was being given an opportunity of doing still better for himself with him.
He said some nice things about Hugo in his boyhood, and laid stress upon the sacrifice he had made, which had wiped out all his errors. Colonel Eldridge accepted it all, but perhaps it wasn't quite what he wanted, for lack of the feeling behind it, which, if it had been true, would have brought balm to him. "Well, I don't want to throw his name into discussion again," he said. "Perhaps I shall have to. I don't think I could go to one of these people and bargain with him. I should make a poor hand of it. And I wouldn't pay the preposterousterms that they seem to demand when you do go to them. It wouldn't be right. I'd had some idea that as you know about business, and all that, you might be able to suggest something. But I hadn't thought of your offering to find the money. I couldn't—"
"I won't press it," said Fred. "What I could do would be to find somebody who would advance it, on suitable terms. That wouldn't be difficult. You might have to pay a bit more than ten per cent, but I should try to get a loan for that, and I know I could get it for twelve."
He had absolved him from having angled for the offer he had made, and thought that it had been refused because it did not consort with Colonel Eldridge's dignity to accept a loan from him. He "knew about business, and all that." He recognized the attitude of a man to whom all transactions outside those of which he had personal knowledge were a mystery known to the elect, of whom he was considered one. In face of that child-like ignorance it would be easy enough to arrange this affair.
"I should consider myself lucky in getting a loan at twelve per cent, or even more. Do you mean that you really could make it a purely business transaction—get me an introduction, or something of that sort? I appreciate your very kind offer, of course; but it couldn't be purely a business transaction between you and me. Supposing I were to die, before it was paid off—one has to think of that—the claim would come upon my estate, and—well, you see it wouldn't do."
Fred did see that, from Colonel Eldridge's point of view. It would be necessary, but not difficult, to hide his tracks. "All you would owe to me would be the recommendation," he said. "And I could put it through more quickly and easily than you could yourself. If you'll say the word I'll go up to-morrow and arrange it. I shall bring you down a paper to sign, and then you can deal straight with the man I shall introduce the business to. I shan't have anything more to do with it after that, and I needn't say I shall keep my mouth shut about it."
Colonel Eldridge showed his relief. "I didn't think you'd lift the weight off my mind as readily as that," he said, smiling at Fred. "I'm very deeply grateful to you. Poor Hugo! It's the last trouble we shall have from him, I hope. It's odd, you know, that it doesn't make me love the boy less. It's as if he'd come to me himself and asked me to get him out of a mess. I should have wanted to keep it to myself then. I don't mind telling you, as you've been so kind, that there was one trouble I had to deal with that looked bad against him, and this last claim might have turned out to have some connection with that. He had got in with a wild lot—I dare say most of them are killed now, poor boys! It's right to keep their faults to oneself, if it's possible. I'm glad I can settle this matter promptly, and get it out of the way—thanks to you. I'm very grateful to you, Fred."
He shook hands with him, and Fred left him, feeling rather ashamed of himself.
What was Norman doing? He did not come to the Hall on that day, nor on the next, and it was not until the third day that Pamela heard he had gone away the afternoon before. The close intercourse between the Hall and the Grange was lessening. Lady Eldridge had been left alone at the Grange, and she had not proposed herself to dine at the Hall, or asked any of them to keep her company. Pamela felt unhappy about it all. They seemed to be drifting apart, and nobody was doing anything to prevent it. If Fred was right about Norman, he was even acting in such a way as to make the breach wider. She had decided to say something to him about the inquiries he had been making, but he had kept away from her. That was very unlike him, and it was not in the bargain he had made with her. They two were to ignore the quarrel altogether, and be just as they had been before. He was not ignoring the quarrel, but apparently taking a hand in it, and he had gone away without a word to her, which she could not remember his ever having done. Perhaps he was annoyed with her for having admitted Fred into so much intimacy. Well, she had her own reasons for that, and to stand aloof from her himself wasn't the way to recommend his opinion to her. It was rather a relief to her that Fred had alsogone away for a couple of days, for she had not decided yet what she should do with the information he had brought her, and she had no inclination to discuss her course of action with him.
She went over to the Grange in the morning to see her aunt. She still had faith in her, and knew from her mother how troubled she was about the estrangement. But she had not talked with her about it herself. She thought she might, this morning, if she were given a chance.
But Lady Eldridge did not give her a chance. She was in her pretty room, busy with a water-colour drawing of flowers. She was pleased to see Pam, and kept her to lunch with her. They played the piano together and sang, and cut flowers from the garden and arranged them. It was just such a quiet happy morning as Pam had often spent with her, except that it was not very happy. There was the shadow over both of them. Pamela could see that her aunt was sad about it, but also that she did not want it mentioned. The terms they were on did not permit of her breaking through the implied prohibition unless she had had a firmly fixed purpose in doing so. But no purpose was yet fixed in her.
She learnt that Norman was coming back the next day, bringing two Cambridge friends with him, who were going to stay for a fortnight and read hard; also that her uncle was not coming down for the week-end. It was the third he had missed in a few weeks, and it was the time of year when he generally stayed at Hayslope altogether. It looked as if he were keeping awayon purpose, and she thought that her aunt had mentioned his not being expected as an intimation that nobody need stay away from the Grange because of him. It was a sad pass for them to have come to, and Pamela was not encouraged, as she walked home, by the thought that her aunt seemed to accept it, though not without distress.
The next day Colonel and Mrs. Eldridge, Pamela and Judith went over to lunch at Pershore Castle. There was a niece staying in the house, for whom the society of other young girls was desired. Pamela found her uninteresting. She was just a niece—of the sort who is to be found in most country houses, and unless deflected by matrimony develops in course of time into a cousin, of the sort who is to be found in most country houses. Some bright life was wanted for the benefit of the niece, who was bright herself in a niece-like way, and indeed seemed to possess all the attributes and attainments of a country-house niecehood.
They lunched in a vaulted stone hall, decorated with armour and ancient weapons, but Lord and Lady Crowborough, though both descended from ancestors who might have worn the armour and wielded the weapons, made it appear rather commonplace. Lord Crowborough was genial, and rather heavily playful with the girls, and especially with the niece, who responded to him in the way required, and Lady Crowborough, who had begun by being stately, soon thawed into almost profuse friendship towards Colonel Eldridge on her right and Judith on her left. Horsham sat next to Judith, who was inclined to be silent. Pam was on theother side of the table, next to the niece, and his eyes were frequently attracted to her. He might possibly have told the niece how it was with him, for she made efforts to include them both in conversation. But it is more likely that, guided by some subtle instinct, she was, unknown to herself, preparing for the years of cousinship ahead, when Horsham would sit where his father sat now, and his wife, whoever she might be, would invite her to pay long visits to them.
She took Judith off somewhere after lunch, and left Pamela with Horsham. This was not to Pamela's liking, but she soon discovered that it was to his. She did not pay much attention to his conversation, feeling a trifle drowsy after the half glass of Moselle which Lord Crowborough had insisted upon her drinking, until she woke up to the fact that he was endeavouring in a tentative and rather clumsy way to make love to her. She was inclined to be flattered, because she had now made up her mind that he liked Judith better than he liked her, though he might not be fully aware of it yet himself. But she did not want to be made love to for the moment, however tentatively. It was too hot, for one thing, and even half a glass of Moselle induces a disinclination to mental effort when your preference in fluids is for plain water.
She staved off the pressure for a time by asking him exactly how far he thought it was from Hayslope to Pershore, and expressing doubt at his answer. If she had thought of it she would have asked him to fetch a map, and he would have done so willingly and proved that he was right. But he ended that discussion bysaying: "Whatever the distance is, I wish it was less. Then I should see you oftener."
This was no longer tentative, though it might be lacking in finesse. It was too much trouble to fence with it, only to have it pressed home. "Oh, my dear old Jim," she said, "I don't want you to say that sort of thing. Let's talk sensibly, if we must talk. But to tell you the truth, I feel rather sleepy. Couldn't we both drop off for a few minutes? These chairs are very comfortable."
Horsham was sitting up in his. They were on a terrace edged with a battlemented wall, from which there was a fine spreading view of the country that this ancient castle had once dominated. Men at arms had paced up and down the flags upon which the wicker chairs and tables were now so invitingly displayed, and if a fair lady had ever been wooed there by the inheritor of all the power and wealth that had been represented by Pershore Castle, it would have been in very different terms from those now being used by his descendant.
Nevertheless, Lord Horsham possessed, in addition to his quite modern tastes, habits and appearance, some sense, not to be confounded with vanity, of the dignities he had inherited, or would inherit, and a certain direct simplicity of purpose such as had probably had a good deal to do with advancing his ancestors to the summit of their desires. He passed over completely Pamela's very modern expression of humour, and said: "I hadn't thought of saying anything to you now because it's just a chance that we are here alone, and I don't know how much time there'll be. But there'sno sense in keeping back what's there, and I know my own mind by this time. It's quite simple. You're the only girl I've ever seen that I should like to marry—I don't mean yet; but is there any chance of it?"
This had been said, not altogether without intimations of nervousness, but with a weight that forbade the response of raillery. Pamela corrected herself, and replied: "I'm afraid not, Jim. I like you very much indeed. I always have and I always shall; but I don't want to marry you."
"I suppose you mean that you don't love me."
"Well—I suppose I do; at least not in that way."
"I didn't think you did, you know," he said, not showing nervousness now. "But don't you think it would come? I don't know much about how these things work, because I've never gone about trying to fall in love, as some fellows seem to do. But I did read in a book somewhere that women often fell in love with men after they were married, though men didn't."
Pamela allowed herself some relaxation in her attitude of seriousness and laughed. "I don't think it does to go by books in that sort of thing," she said. "Aren't you making a mistake in your feelings about me, Jim? I know you like me, and I'm very glad you do. I like you too. But we don't seem to be exactly cut out for one another. Really, you get on much better with Judith than you do with me. There's much more in common between you."
"Oh, I know what you think about me and Judith," he said, surprisingly. "I do get on very well with Judith, but it isn't the same thing at all. You've oftensent me off with Judith when I've wanted to be with you, and I've gone because I didn't want to worry you, before I'd said what I've said just now, which I've been meaning to say for some time. It's you I love, not Judith."
This touched her a little. "I'm awfully grateful to you, Jim," she said. "But I can't say what you want. And I'm still not sure that you really do want it. Perhaps I ought not to say it—but we are such good friends, aren't we? And as we've mentioned Judith—I'm sureshehas no idea of such a thing, and of course she and I have never talked about you in that way—I really do believe that you like her much better than you think you do. She's a darling, and ever so much prettier than I am, and much more suited to you too. If you could once get me out of your head!"
He listened gravely, and seemed to be weighing what she said. "I've never thought about Judith in that way at all," he said. "She's too young for one thing."
"Oh, yes," she said hurriedly, blushing a little. "Perhaps it's rather horrid of me to talk of her like that. And of course I don't mean now. You're quite young too—not old enough to want to be married yet."
"I shouldn'taimat getting married yet," he confessed, "in the ordinary way, perhaps not for a few years. But there's no reason against it. When I've left Oxford, which will be in another year, I shall be settling down to work, and it has lately seemed to me that I could work much better if I was married—tosomebody I love, as I love you, who would help me in everything I did."
"Dear old Jim," she said affectionately. "Somehow, I think you've got hold of the right idea of marriage. With the right girl you would be happy, and I think you would make her happy too. But I'm sureI'mnot the right girl for you. We'll go on being friends, though, all the same."
He heaved a sigh. "Well, I can see it's no good going on about it," he said. "All the same, I shan't give up the idea. I suppose there's nobody else you do want to marry, is there?"
"No," she said shortly.
"Well, then, I shall ask you again—when I've left Oxford, and am ready to start. Until then, I shan't bother you—not at all, and I shall be glad to go on being friends, as you say you will be. You won't tell anyone what I've asked you, will you?"
She hesitated. "I'd rather you didn't tell Norman," he said. "I like Norman, and I don't mind his chaff a bit. But I'd rather not be chaffed about this, because I feel seriously about it."
"No, Jim, I won't," she said. "I won't tell anybody until you say that I may."
Lady Crowborough and Mrs. Eldridge had retired together after luncheon, into an upstairs drawing-room, which had a still finer view of the surrounding dappled country than the terrace below.
Mrs. Eldridge was in a mood slightly mischievous. She had seen Lady Crowborough thaw towards her husband, whom she had probably designed to keep atarm's length. She had not yet thawed towards herself, and this retirement to a room not often used, instead of to one with a more intimate significance, seemed to mean that she would be treated with all courtesy and consideration due to her, but not admitted to any heart-felt intercourse.
She talked politely, on the surface of things, and Lady Crowborough responded in the same tone, and as if this was exactly what she wished. She even appeared to be taking the stand of a great, but still affable, lady towards a country neighbour of less exalted position, which Mrs. Eldridge encouraged by due submission. But presently she seemed to be getting uneasy at the absence of the intimacy that had existed for years between her and this particular neighbour, and to be inviting a change in the tone of the conversation. Mrs. Eldridge did not respond to the invitation, but became rather more colourlessly polite than before.
"I always think that you have such lovely views from here," she said, looking out of the window. "We have beautiful views from some of our windows at Hayslope—not all—and the Castle shows up so well from there. But of course you can't live in it and have it to look at too."
"No," Lady Crowborough agreed, and added with a smile, as of one who was saying something rather clever: "Sometimes I wish we had it to look at instead of to live in. There seems no end to the expenses of living in a house as large as this, even when you live as simply as we do.Everythinghas gone up since the war.Everything.Don't you find it so?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Eldridge. "In our small way we do."
"Even clothes," said Lady Crowborough. "I'm really glad not to be in London so much as we used to be. In the country one can wear old clothes, and it doesn't matter."
"It wouldn't matter, of course, whatyouwore," said Mrs. Eldridge, and wished Pamela had been there to hear the way she said it. "In our position we have to be more careful. I find it difficult to dress myself and the girls nicely without spending too much on it."
"Oh, but you always look sobeautifullydressed," said Lady Crowborough. "And as for girls, I was only thinking at lunch how perfectly charming they looked. They really are thesweetestlooking girls, both of them; and so clever and taking too. Of course I always admired them as little girls; but pretty little girls don't always grow up so pretty. Both Pamela and Judith have. I'm not sure that Judith won't be even prettier than Pamela by and by."
"Yes, I think they are pretty, both of them," said Mrs. Eldridge judicially. "And they are looking their best to-day. Excitement always improves young girls, and they have been so looking forward to coming here, ever since we had your kind note."
Her artistic sense reproached her for having gone perhaps a trifle too far, but Lady Crowborough by now was extremely anxious to cast away the tiresome impediments of reserve. "Oh, you must bring them over more often," she said, "especially now we have my niece staying with us. I was saying to my husbandonly yesterday, we don't seehalfenough of the Eldridges, and we've always been such close friends. There was a little trouble, I know, between my husband and yours, but that's all over now, and it never affected us, did it? Couldn't we arrange a little picnic together somewhere—just ourselves and your children? I should like Patricia to know Alice and Isabelle. They're not so pretty as Pamela and Judith, but theyarepretty, and they're such clever and amusing children. I often wish I had a daughter of my own. I think you're lucky in having four of them."
Mrs. Eldridge allowed herself to relax. "Four daughters are rather a responsibility in these days," she said. "We couldn't do without one of ours, even Alice and Isabelle, who are perfectly hideous, but darlings all the same. Still, it's far less anxiety to have an only son, as you have; especially when he's so well-behaved, as Horsham."
Lady Crowborough felt the change of atmosphere, and all her responsive petals unfolded to it. "I don't mind saying to such an old friend as you," she said confidentially, "that we were a little afraid of Horsham's becoming rather wild at one time. But that's all over. He is taking life quite seriously now, though I'm glad to say that it doesn't prevent his being bright and gay in a way that a young man ought to be."
"Oh, no!" exclaimed Mrs. Eldridge, and again wished that Pamela were there to hear her—or if not Pamela,somebodywho could appreciate her.
"I should like Horsham to marry early and settledown," said Lady Crowborough. "I don't approve of very early marriages as a rule, but in his case I think it would turn out well."
"I'm sure he would make a good husband," said Mrs. Eldridge. "His wife would never have a moment's anxiety about him."
"No, I don't think she would. And do you know, dear Mrs. Eldridge, I've a fancy in my head that he is thinking about it already."
"Really? That's very interesting. Is it your niece? She seems a very nice girl."
"Oh, no. Patricia and he get on very well together, but there's never likely to be anything of that sort between them. Patricia is going in for music; she has a very pretty little voice—you must hear her sing—and though sheneedn'tdo anything, you never know with a girl, in these days. No, it isn't Patricia, dear. I wonder you haven't seen something yourself; you must look much nearer home."
"One ofmygirls?" she laughed, naturally. "Which one?" she asked.
"Why, Pamela, of course. Judith is hardly grown up yet."
"And Alice and Isabelle are too ugly, besides being still less grown up. Well, he does like coming over to us, and we're always very pleased to see him. But really, I don't think it has got as far as that yet. If it had I shouldn't have asked which of the girls you suspected. He seems to like them both equally—all four equally, I might almost say. If itwerePamela, should you think she was quite good enough for him?"
The artistic conscience approved of this question, as carrying over the earlier tone of the conversation into the later. But Lady Crowborough had quite done with that earlier tone. "Oh, my dear!" she said in expostulation. "We're notworldly. You ought to know us better than that by this time. Besides, Pamela might marry anybody.You'renot worldly either, I'm sure; but you would expect her to make what is called a good match, I should think. Besides—yourdaughter!"
Mrs. Eldridge forgave her everything. "It would be rather nice," she said. "I shall hate to lose Pam. It seems such a little time ago that she was a tiny child. I suppose she's a little more to me than the others, because she was the first girl. Still, I've got to lose her some time or other, and I should love it if she didn't goveryfar away. At the same time, you know, I don't think it's going to happen."
Lady Crowborough looked disappointed. She had always shown herself very much taken with Pamela, since her babyhood, and Mrs. Eldridge had known, all the time she was amusing herself with her attempted stand-offishness towards herself, that she had only to mention Pamela's name to turn it into entire friendliness. "Ishouldlike it," she said. "And I suppose neither you nor Colonel Eldridge would object, would you?"
"No, of course we shouldn't. One has to think of the sort of marriage one's daughters are likely to make, and we couldn't expect a more satisfactory one, for any of our girls."
"Well, there is the position, of course," said Lady Crowborough, with a slight return to her great lady manner. "But nobody would fill it better than Pamela—as ayoungwife, I mean."
A glint appeared in Mrs. Eldridge's eyes. "You would be able to teach her what she didn't know," she said.
"Oh, yes. There's nothing so very difficult about it, if you're of the right sort of birth to begin with. Well, there's no hurry. They're both quite young still. But Ishouldlike it to happen, I must say; and I'm quite glad we've had a little talk about it. There'd be no harm in trying to help it on, would there? If you and I are agreed, we might do something, of course without showing our hands, you know."
"Yes; you said something about a picnic just now."
All Lady Crowborough's petals expanded to their utmost. "Ah!" she exclaimed ecstatically. "A picnic. Now do let us arrange a picnic!"
Lord Crowborough and Colonel Eldridge had retired for their after-luncheon cigars to another lower terrace overlooking the garden slopes. Lord Crowborough felt it necessary to say something about Sir William's elevation to the Order which he himself adorned, but was not quite sure how his friend would take it. Vague rumours of a dispute had reached Pershore Castle, though nothing was known there as to the grounds of it. Perhaps Edmund Eldridge objected to his brother being elevated above himself. His prejudices were not always reasonable.
"I'm sure William will be very useful to us," said Lord Crowborough, expansively. "He's made an extraordinary success of everything he has done so far. A very capable fellow, William! We've plenty of room for men like him. A man of family too! So many of the people they send to us don't know who their grandfathers were."
"Or else they do know, and keep it dark."
Lord Crowborough laughed appreciatively. "That's very good," he said. "Very good indeed! I must remember that. Or else they do know, and keep it dark. Yes, you've just about hit it. There was a fellow I met a short time ago—I forget his name, which I'd never heard of, or what he called himself—impossible to keepall these new titles in your head—but he told me himself that his grandfather had served behind the counter of a grocer's shop. Well,hedidn't keep it dark, to do him justice, and I think they'd only made him a baronet, now I come to think of it, and not a peer. But 'pon my word with half of 'em it's just paying down money, and up they go. Hardly any pretence of havingdoneanything to deserve it. Of course Williamhasmade himself useful. Nothing to complain of there."
"They wanted him either in the Lords or the Commons, as I understand. There's no question ofhisbuying a title."
"Eh? Oh, no! Besides, such things aren't done. Nobody reallybuysa title. There's alwayssomereason for it. With him there's a good one."
"Yes, but— People aren't saying that he has paid money for it, are they?"
"Eh? Oh, I dare say he made a handsome subscription to Party funds, you know. He can afford it. He's a rich fellow, William.Thatwouldn't be buying his title."
"It wouldn't be far off. Is it the general opinion that he has done that?"
"General opinion? My dear fellow, what does general opinion matter? If he's told you definitely that he hasn't—!"
"Oh, he hasn't told me anything about it. I haven't seen him for a month."
"Eh? I'm sorry to hear that, Edmund. I did hear something about you having fallen out. I hope it's nothing serious. You've always been such good friends,you and William. You're not annoyed about his peerage, are you?"
"No. Why should I be annoyed about it? I should be if I thought he'd bought it—directly or indirectly—as you seem to hint. But I don't think he would do that."
"Eh? No, I dare say not. I don't know anything about it. What are you going to do about shooting this year? You haven't preserved at all since the war, have you?"
"No. William wanted to. We've run the shooting together for some years, you know. He was ready to pay to get it all going again, but I didn't care about that, and I can't afford to pay my share now. There'll be enough birds for a few days now and then, which is all I want."
"Ah, then I suppose that's why William is going off to Suffolk."
"Going off to Suffolk?"
"You didn't know? I thought perhaps that might have had something to do with your falling out with him—cutting himself loose from Hayslope, now that he's more interested in it—or ought to be."
"What we've fallen out about is— But I don't want to go into it; it's a private affair. I've told you that I haven't seen him for weeks, and he hasn't been here as much as usual. I don't know anything about his movements."
"Well, it came to me in rather a roundabout way, though as it happens I can vouch for it as far as it goes. I don't know whether I'm letting out any secrets;but a man I dined with at Brooks's the other night, talking about how the old estates were getting into the hands of—I mean, he happened to mention a place in Suffolk that belonged to a relation of his, and I understood that William was in negotiation for it. Of course I said I knew him, and he'd be all right as a neighbour; but I said that he had a place here, and a property coming to him by and by, and I was surprised to hear that he was thinking of buying another one. However, he assured me that it was so, but perhaps he was mistaken. He certainly said that William had been down to see the place, because his cousin had told him so. Nevill Goring it was—no harm in mentioning his name. I can't remember who he said his cousin was, or the name of the place, though he did mention them both, and I understood him to say it was practically fixed up. You see William isknown. People talk about him now, and if he does anything it's known about; often gets into the papers too."
"Yes, I suppose so. It's difficult to believe all the same, because he would hardly buy a big place without consulting his wife, and she's been down here for the last two or three weeks, without going away. We've seen her constantly, and she's never mentioned such a thing."
"Oh, you still see her?"
"Yes. There's no quarrel with her! There'd be no quarrel with William if he were what he used to be. However, I don't want to talk about it. He'll go his own way, I suppose. If it's really true that he's thinking of buying another place, I suppose his way and mine will diverge more than ever."
"Well now, my dear Edmund, can't I do something about it? You're both friends of mine. You're more my friend than William is, but still you're both friends, of very long standing. I don'tliketo see you at loggerheads, and I don't see any reason for it. Besides, it's an exceptionally bad thing in this case, because there's your property, very much reduced now I'm sure, like everybody's property, and there's William with a great deal of money—really agreatdeal of money he must have made, or he wouldn't have been able to—well, he wouldn't be able to buy another big landed property, as apparently he's thinking of doing. Yououghtto be working in together, you two, not drifting apart like this."
"Yes; I know." He spoke rather sadly. "But as for William's money, I'm sick of his money, Crowborough. It seems to stand for everything. What we've actually quarrelled about is a very small thing. I know that, and I'm not going over it with you. No, you can't do anything; thank you, all the same. It began by William using his money in what I thought was an unjustifiable way. All the way through, at Hayslope, there am I adjusting things to the new conditions, as all landowners must nowadays, spending my life there, and doing more work than I've ever had to do for myself; and there's William just coming down now and then, and complicating everything with his money, throwing labour out of gear, not even consulting me in matters where I ought to be consulted, doing just what he pleases. He gets a peerage, and you tell me that the general idea is thatthat'sowing to his money. He'squarrelled with me, so Hayslope isn't agreeable to him any longer, I suppose, and he's got enough money to go and buy another big place, just to get away from it, though it will all be his some day. His money has altered William entirely. Now he's Lord Eldridge, and I'm just a nobody of a poor country gentleman, hard hit by the war. I don't mind that—not for myself, though I do for my wife and children; but you'd think he wouldn't want to be always ramming it down my throat—his elder brother, and the head of his family, in spite of his new peerage. If I were content to sit down and take his charity, I dare say we should get on very well together. I don't know how much money he has, but I dare say he could make me perfectly comfortable at Hayslope without feeling it. But I'm not taking his charity, or his patronage either. It isn't in me to do it, not even for the sake of my family, and I'd swallow a good deal for them to have what they ought to have."
Lord Crowborough's face had become serious during this speech. "Well, I see how it is, Edmund," he said. "I see very plainly how it is; because I've always felt about William—though I've never said so—that with all his generosity—and I think there's no doubt he's a generous man; in fact I know he is—he's not quite—how shall I put it?—one of our sort. I don't know why, I'm sure, because he is by birth, and upbringing too. I suppose he's what they call a throwback. The fact is I don't think he could have made all that money, and still be making it, I suppose, if he weren't different—different altogether. The money-makers are a typeapart, and they may make him a peer, and he may be a big landowner—anything you please—but the more he gets with that swim the more he resembles their type. That's what you're up against, at the bottom of it all, quarrel or no quarrel; and of course you're not at home with that type. But now, when you've said that, can't you make allowances? After all, he's your brother, and you've been good friends all your lives. Let me have a talk to William. Let me tell him thatyoudon't want to quarrel, and—"
"Oh, you can do that if you like. I've no objection. But you've put it very plainly. He's approximating more and more to type. There's not much chance, I think, of our hitting it off again, as we used to. I stand where I did, and he's altered. Still, I agree that there's no need to quarrel with a man just because he isn't one's own sort. If you can get it on to those lines there may be a way out. I did stipulate that he should do something that I think he ought to have done of his own accord. He would have done it without question a year or two ago. But I don't care whether he does it or not now. It's gone beyond that. I shall never think of him again as I used to because he's not the same man. But there's no reason why we should live at daggers drawn—especially if he's going to withdraw from Hayslope. That's about the last straw. But I'm not going to make a fuss about it, or about anything else that he does. He can go his way, and I'll go mine. We're better apart now."
"If you feel like that about him—! Well, I'll see him and talk to him. I don't think it's quite as bad asyou think, Edmund. The fact is he's made a big position for himself in the world, and—"
"Oh, yes, I know all that. So does he. That's the root of the trouble."
The conversation was broken at that point by the incursion of several young people whose activities and sociabilities for the afternoon would radiate from this garden terrace. Norman Eldridge was among them, and with him were the two young men whom he had invited to Hayslope. These he had already presented to Pamela, and they were now on either side of her, while Horsham thus dispossessed, was making himself agreeable to other guests.
The hot afternoon wore on to the coolness of evening. There was perpetual activity of white-clad youthful figures on the tennis courts; some inspection—mostly in couples—of the ancient Castle, which stood massive and grim overlooking the gay expanse of garden that surrounded it, and as if it would never quite adapt itself to its present peaceful and defenceless state; appreciation of garden beauties—also mostly in couples; general conversation from groups overlooking the courts; play of teacups on the terrace; and a general atmosphere of untroubled youthful enjoyment, tampered by the less vociferous contentment of the elders who watched or took some share in it.
But youth is seldom altogether untroubled, even when in the mass it appears most delightfully free from care. Pamela, for instance, might have forgotten, for the happy afternoon, the cloud that hung over her home, as her parents whom it most concerned seemed to bedoing; the experience of a first proposal had not greatly affected her, though probably when she came to think it over alone it would seem more important than it did now. But she was unhappy about Norman.
Was he avoiding her? The idea came to her in the course of the afternoon, and grew. She was not entirely guiltless of a wish to avoid him, at first, or at least to appear to be doing so. She was not quite pleased with him, but her displeasure would melt if he sought her out, as he might be expected to do, and proved to her that she had nothing over which to disturb herself. He had more than one opportunity of securing a word or two with her apart. Almost invariably he had done so on such occasions as this, if only to share with her some laughing appreciation of the company in which they found themselves. He had produced for her inspection the first instalment of his promised supply of young men; the grin with which he had introduced them to her had shown that their conversation on that subject was in his mind, and he must have wanted to hear her observations, and to make some of his own. She was quite ready to oblige him, as a stepping-stone to an exchange of views upon a subject more serious, for her slight resentment against him soon disappeared in face of his evident wish to maintain the usual friendly relations. He did accompany her and one of his friends, who had expressed a desire to see the Castle—in Pamela's company—on a round of inspection, and was quite friendly and amusing. But when she was ready to make it easy for him to talk to her alone, he did not give her the opportunity, and by and by she became sure that hedid not want to talk to her alone. Then she retired into her shell, and showed him that she was displeased with him. He didn't seem to mind that either, and pretended not to notice it. He did his best to make her laugh, and it was unfortunate that once at least he succeeded. This made her angry with herself, and she withdrew from the group which Norman was so successful in entertaining. One of his friends—the one who had inspected the Castle with them—withdrew with her, but he found that the wind had changed and the sun of her amiability no longer shone on him. She detached herself and went straight up to where Fred Comfrey was engaged in conversation with the Pershore niece, and presently Norman had the felicity of seeing her walk off with him towards the retirement of groves unseen. Though carefully refraining from a look in his direction, she was fully aware of the annoyance he immediately showed, and was glad of it.
When she had got Fred alone she was inclined to be annoyed with herself for having been forced to that means of asserting herself, and wished she had chosen Horsham for a tête-à-tête. Her feelings were warm towards Horsham, who had behaved well under his rejection, and she had seen him eyeing her rather wistfully as she and Fred had passed him. Still, Norman would not have disliked that as much as this; and this needn't last long. Fred did not appear to such advantage here as at home at Hayslope, where his status was well understood and need not be taken into account. He did not seem to belong of right to the company assembled. He had, in fact, bicycled over to Pershore Rectory, withthe faint hope that the Rector's daughters, whom he knew slightly, might be going to the Castle, where he knew that Pamela was to spend the afternoon, and would take him with them. His hopes had been fulfilled. The Rector's daughters were "getting on," and could neither send away a young man reported to be eligible on the plea of an engagement, or give up their afternoon's pleasure. But he was inclined to wish that his plan had not succeeded. He had been quite well received, but he was not in flannels and could not play tennis; so that he never merged with the rest, and there was a sort of air of apology about him which did not show him up to advantage. He had never been to Pershore Castle before, and was apologetic about that, to Pamela, explaining rather anxiously exactly how he came to be there, and giving her the very impression which his explanations were intended to remove—that he had got himself in there on her account. This did not please her at all; nor did his way of taking her invitation to a stroll apart. She divined a difference in his attitude towards her, though there was nothing in his speech at which she could take offence. Her invitation was made to appear a special mark of favour, and yet one to which he seemed to think he had some right. For the first time in her intercourse with him she was forced to take into account his admiration of her, which she had hitherto been able to set aside.
She asked him, rather shortly, what it was that her father had talked to him about, for she had not seen him since that afternoon. To her surprise he said that it had nothing to do with the quarrel, and gave her tounderstand that there were subjects which men discussed between themselves and kept to themselves. He said this in a half-jocular manner, not in the best of taste, and she had an uneasy suspicion that she herself might have been the subject of their conversation, but immediately rejected it. Fred seemed, anyhow, to be less in awe of her father than he had shown himself until now, and she did not like that, for she thought that deference was due from him. She was in fact, coming very quickly round to Norman's stated opinion of Fred—that he might have made a success of his job, whatever it was, and done well in the war, but he was an outsider all the same. She had labelled this view as snobbery, and Norman had said: "All right, then, I'm a snob. Let's leave it at that."
Perhaps Fred, not responsive to fine shades, but sharpened by his feeling for her, and under the uneasy influence of a false shame at being where he was, divined that he was losing ground in her estimation, for he suddenly plumped out; "Well, this is the last of holidays for me. I'm off to London to get into harness again."
That changed the current of her thoughts about him. As a bold adventurer on the sea of life he was worthy of respect, and good wishes. She gave him her good wishes, and he stoically refrained from asking anything else of her, though he would have given a good deal for some word of regret that he was leaving so soon, or of desire for his return. Still, she was charmingly friendly again, and he took leave of her, and very soon afterwards of Pershore Castle, thinking that his appearance there had not turned out so badly after all. Hehad actually made no plans to go to London, or anywhere else, in the immediate future; his announcement of departure had been an inspiration of the moment. He would never get any further with her, hanging about Hayslope. Her tone towards him had shown him that plainly. He was a fool to have counted a little upon that surprising and gratifying invitation of hers to a few minutes of intimacy in the middle of a crowd, and to have tried to advance himself a step. And yet— What had it meant but that she was beginning to want him—a little, sometimes—as he wanted her, always. She might not know it, and she had certainly not seemed to want him very much when she had got him apart; but the stirring of her heart towards him, surely it had begun! He would go away, as soon as possible, and plunge into work, and every now and then, at intervals not too close, he would come back, and tell her of what he had been doing. She would miss him. Would she miss him? He hoped so; he thought so. He was not an altogether unhappy young man as he pedalled himself back to Hayslope.
But he had left behind him an unhappy young woman. Norman was furious with Pamela now, wouldn't look at her, much less speak to her. And she was without the conviction to uphold her that she had done right. Her eyes had been opened. She was ashamed of herself for having given Fred that mark of confidence. Norman was right. He wasn't of their sort, and it didn't do to go outside the pale for your friends. Neither of those young men whom Norman had introduced to her would have made her feel uncomfortable, as Fred had, if shehad given them an ordinary mark of friendship. Pamela had burnt her fingers, for she had wanted Norman to take her invitation to Fred as rather more than an ordinary mark of friendship. He had done so, and she was not pleased with herself, nor with him, nor with Fred. But of course she wasn't going to show him that. She took no more notice of him for the rest of the afternoon than he did of her, but she made herself particularly agreeable to the more coming-on of his two friends. But this wasn't a great success either, for the friend told Norman that evening, with the attractive candour of a friend, that he thought his cousin was a peach, but somewhat hectic in her mirth, which was exactly what Pamela wasn't as a general rule.
Horsham happened to be in Judith's company when Pamela went away with Fred. He found Judith's company soothing after the laceration of spirit he had lately undergone. He had conscientiously examined himself upon Pamela's statement to him about Judith, trying to look at her with the eyes that had been attributed to him, just to see if there was anything in it, as yet unknown to himself. Certainly she was a very pretty girl, and now he came to look at her more closely not really a child any longer. It would not be at all surprising if some fellow fell in love with her, pretty soon. But she did not arouse in him the feelings that Pamela did. She was a delightful companion, and as a sister, if he ever had the luck to marry Pamela, she would be very dear to him—he felt sure of that. Yes, in a way he really loved her already, but not in that way at all. He was sure of that also, and being sureof it allowed himself to take his usual pleasure in her society, honest fellow that he was, without any misgivings of danger.
"I say," he said, "I don't much care for that fellow Comfrey. Pamela doesn't like him particularly, does she?"
"I don't know," said Judith. "I don't."
"You don't? Why?"
"I don't know why," said Judith, "but I don't," which was a thoroughly Judithian speech.
"Strikes me as rather a pushing sort of fellow," said Horsham. "I shouldn't have thought Pamela would have taken up with a fellow like that."
"How high is that tower?" asked Judith. They were sitting on the lawn in view of the Castle, looming above them.
Horsham told her. She seemed really to want to know. He thought rather sadly that Pamela had not really wanted to know how far it was from Hayslope to Pershore. Judith was sometimes more interesting to talk to than Pamela, or at least she was sometimes more easy to talk to. But perhaps that was because she was not so clever as Pamela. He knewhewasn't. But he had a good brain and was improving it all the time. He told Judith something about the course of study he was pursuing at Oxford, but she was disappointing about that. "I hate learning things," she said; "at least I hate sitting down to learn something. I like finding things out for myself."
"Well; that's the only way of finding them out, isn't it?—real stiff things, I mean."
"I don't know. Perhaps it is. When did Napoleon die?"
Such a question from Pamela might have made Horsham suspect that he was being chaffed. But Judith didn't chaff him in that way. He was obliged to confess that he was uncertain of the exact date, but would look it up for her if she wanted to know.
"I don't want to know the exact date," she said. "But the Battle of Waterloo was in 1815, and I suppose he was getting on then. I didn't know till the other day that his wife was still alive."
"His wife!"
"Well, widow, then. The Empress Eugènie was the wife of Napoleon, and she's alive still, and lives in England."
Horsham did not laugh, or even smile at her. He felt a little shocked, but would not have let her see it for anything. "Oh, she's the wife of Napoleon the Third," he said. "The Napoleon we defeated at Waterloo was Napoleon the First, you know."
"Oh, I see," said Judith hurriedly. "Yes; of course, I ought to have known that. I'm glad I asked you, and not anybody else."
This little episode remained in Horsham's memory. He was rather surprised that Judith's astonishing ignorance did not affect him more disagreeably. But of course a young girl might very well be ignorant of the course of modern history. He himself had not known the date of the great Napoleon's death until he had looked it up afterwards. Her mistake had had the contrary effect of making him feel rather tender towardsher. He quite understood that she was ashamed of it, and would have hated to be laughed at because of it. She had known he wouldn't laugh at her. That was rather touching. It was pleasant to be understood, and trusted, in that way. Dear little Judith! If only Pamela would trust him like that! Perhaps she would some day. He loved her very much, and that must surely have some weight with her in time. They were a wonderful pair, she and Judith. It wasn't often you found two girls, quite different, as charming as those two. Oh, Pamela was worth waiting and hoping for.