The usual preparations for Christmas went on, though on a smaller scale than before. The children mustn't know that for their elders all such preparations were something of an extra burden instead of a pleasure. Even Judith refused to be exhilarated by them. "What's the good of holly and mistletoe," she said, "with only old Cousin Annie coming? I think Uncle William's a beast. I never liked him, and now I hate him."
Pamela protested. Judith had been as fond of Uncle William as all the rest of them. "Perhaps I was when I was little," she admitted. "But I haven't liked him at all since he has been Lord Eldridge. Father ought to have been Lord Eldridge, if anybody had to be. But I hate lords, except Jim; and he isn't like a lord."
Pamela laughed. "What is he like then?" she asked.
Judith did not reply to this. "I think you ought to marry him," she said, with her sometimes disconcerting abruptness. "He wants you to, and you couldn't get anybody better. Besides, father and mother wouldlike it. With four of us, and being rather poor now, of course they would like us to get married."
"How do you know Jim would like me to marry him?" asked Pamela.
"Because he told me so."
This was rather surprising news. Pamela would have liked to ask if he had told Judith of his proposal, but Judith saved her the trouble. "It was quite plain what he wanted," she said, "so I asked him about it. You needn't tell him that I told you so. I like Jim, and I want to see him properly treated. Besides, if you married Jim, I could come and stay with you."
"Well, you could come and stay with me whoever I married; but I don't see why you shouldn't marry yourself, as soon as I do. What did Jim say when you asked him?"
"He said there was nothing he wanted more; but he knew you didn't want it yet. I thought that was rather nice of him. Jim has a very nice sort of modesty. Most young men nowadays think such a lot of themselves."
Pamela laughed at this. "What young men?" she asked.
"Well, Norman for one. I like Norman all right, but he isn't modest, like Jim. And I don't think he's behaving very well now.Hecould come and see us, if he wanted to. I suppose he couldn't very well come for Christmas, and leave all the lords and ladies they are going to have to stay with them; but he might come some time. He left Cambridge long ago."
"Only just over a week ago," said Pam. But shethought herself that Norman might have come. He was staying with some friends in Ireland now. There were several young girls in the family, or in the party. Perhaps he was falling in love with one of them. As he had been there for some days, and was going to stay for another week, there would almost be time to fall in love with two, successively. Pamela was rather pleased with that idea, and thought she would write and suggest it to him. She was always on the lookout for little opportunities of scoring off Norman now.
But Norman redeemed his character altogether for the time being by writing to propose himself for Christmas at the Hall. Preparations went on with more gaiety then. With Norman there, this Christmas wouldn't be so different from others, after all.
In the week before Christmas, Colonel Eldridge went up to London, for the first time for many months, and while he was there telegraphed home that General and Mrs. Wilton were coming down with him for the week-end. This, too, was like old times. It was some time since the house had been managed in such a way as to involve no special preparation for guests of this kind, but these were old friends who had been at Hayslope before, and it was a pleasure to get ready for them, though it was somewhat of a surprise that they should be asked. "But I think I know why," Mrs. Eldridge said to Pam, "and I don't know whether to be glad or sorry. General Wilton sold his place in Ireland not long ago, and they only have a London house now. Perhaps he is thinking of taking this."
So it proved. Colonel Eldridge told Pamela about ithimself, after they had gone. "They are going to the South of France after Christmas," he said, "and don't want to make any plans till they come back in the spring. But I think he'll take it. I'd rather have him here than anybody, if I've got to let the place. Shall you mind very much, do you think, Pam?"
"Dear old Daddy," said Pam, slipping her hand under his arm—they were walking together—"I shall only mind because it's so beastly for you. But it will be a weight off you, won't it, not to have to keep it all up?"
"Yes. I shan't mind as much as I thought I should, because of that. If you've got something that you can't keep going, it hardly seems to belong to you. I shall be better away from Hayslope now, and we'll find something somewhere that we shall like. We shan't have to clear out for some months, anyhow. We'll enjoy it as much as we can in the meantime."
"Does Uncle William know you are going to let the house?" she asked.
"No," he said shortly, but added after a time: "It's no good thinking of that, you know. We've got to stand on our own feet."
"Oh, yes, of course," she said, but thought all the time that Uncle William might stop the letting of the house, if he were so minded. And surely, he must be so minded! He didn't seem to care much about Hayslope himself now, leaving his own house there empty for all these months; but he couldn't want to see them leave it too. She wondered what Norman would say when he heard of it.
Colonel Eldridge was sitting in his room over the fire, which was unusual with him in the middle of the morning. But the weather was atrocious, and he had the beginnings of a cold on him, which disinclined him for activity either physical or mental. The door opened, and Fred Comfrey was announced. He was a little surprised to see him, for though he had frequented the Hall when at Hayslope he had not come straight to him; and this was his first appearance in the Christmas holidays. But his visit was not unwelcome. Colonel Eldridge was not used to sitting idle, and a little chat would be agreeable to him.
"Well, and how's the world using you?" he asked. "I hope you've been making a success of it."
It seemed that Fred had been making a considerable success of it. He had been given a partnership, which he had not expected for a year at least, and his firm had just as much business as they could tackle. "My job is to organize ourselves for taking on more still," he said, "and it's taking me all my time. I hardly thought I should be able to get down here for more than just Christmas Day. But I said I must have three or four days off. Fortunately I'm in a position to do what I please now. I couldn't have insisted three months ago."
"Oh, well, it's an advantage to be your own master. Very few of us are. There's generally something to prevent us doing what we like. I hope it means a good income to you. It seems to me you must be in business of some sort nowadays to make enough to live on."
Fred enlarged upon what it meant to him in the way of income—a quite substantial one in the present, and the certainty of a big one in the future. He went into more detail than seemed necessary, and at considerable length. Colonel Eldridge said: "Well, I like to hear of a young man making good. You seem to be well up on the ladder already, and you're what?—twenty-eight? You were just a year older than Hugo, weren't you? You'll have to think of getting married and settling down soon."
Fred's colour deepened, and he gave a little catch of the breath, but said in a fairly steady voice: "That's what I've come to see you about. I want your permission to ask Pamela."
Colonel Eldridge sat absolutely still, and his face showed nothing. But his voice did, when he said, after a pause: "That's an entirely new idea to me. Have you any reason to suppose that Pamela would—would be prepared for such a declaration?"
The ice was broken, and Fred spoke more easily, but with his eyes fixed on the fire. "I've never tried to make love to her," he said. "I didn't think I had a right to. I've hoped that I should be in a position to come to you like this some day, but I didn't think the time would come so soon. I should have to make my own way with her, and I shouldn't expect to do it atonce. But I thought I ought to satisfy you first that I shall be in a position to give her what you would have a right to expect for her."
Colonel Eldridge's eyes had rested on him during the progress of this speech. He saw before him a young man with a face of some power, but little or no refinement; with a strong-growing crest of thick dark hair; with a sturdy frame in clothes that contrasted somewhat with his own old but well-cut suit of tweeds, neatly-laced thick-soled boots, and neatly-adjusted collar and tie. The hands that lay on his knee, or grasped the arm of his chair, were broad and short-fingered, and their nails were not quite clean.
"You don't think, then, that what I've a right to expect for my daughter goes beyond an income large enough to support her?"
Fred stirred uncomfortably. He must have felt the latent hostility. But his voice did not change. "I don't think that," he said. "I only meant that you'd have a right to expect that first of all. I suppose I couldn't expect you—never have expected you—to welcome the idea, exactly. I didn't begin life with the same advantages as you might expect from anyone who wanted to marry your daughter; but I've made good already, as you've said, and if I may say so without boasting, I'm going farther than most men. I'm determined to; and if I could look forward to—I mean I should have an added incentive, and I don't think there's much I couldn't do in the world. In ten years' time, or less, I don't think you'd have reason to be ashamed of me, as a son-in-law."
"Oh, ashamed! There's no need to talk like that. And one can't take up the position that fathers used to take up over their daughters' marriages. I don't know that you're not right, and the only thing one is entitled to stipulate for nowadays is an assured and sufficient income. Even that seems to have been considered unreasonable in lots of the marriages one has seen take place during the war."
"Yes, I know. But I've waited until I could assure you of a sufficient income, and I've come to you first, as I suppose I shouldn't have done if I hadn't recognized that I was aiming higher than what might be considered my deserts."
"Well, what is it that you want of me exactly? I've no reason to be offended at your coming to me, you know. I've known you for most of your life, and you've been welcomed into my family. I treated you as a friend, myself, only the other day."
"Oh, that was nothing," said Fred. "I was only too glad to be able to be of use to you. I should have been anyhow."
Colonel Eldridge winced a little. "I'll say quite plainly," he said, in a slightly harder voice, "that, from my own point of view, I should be disappointed if my daughter didn't make what would be called a better marriage; but I say it without meaning any offence to you. If she chose to accept you, I shouldn't—I shouldn't refuse my permission, though I think—yes, I think I should stipulate for a certain time to elapse. Will that satisfy you?"
Perhaps it was rather more than Fred had expected,though it was not precisely encouraging. Colonel Eldridge seemed a good deal farther from him than on the last occasion he had talked to him in this room. "I want my chance with her," he said.
"Well, what do you mean by that? You mustn't go to her, you know, saying that I'm in favour of your—your suit, or whatever you like to call it. How far have you got with her? I say again that this is a complete surprise to me, and I shouldn't have thought that she could have given you any encouragement to go upon."
"I don't know that she has. One has one's own private hopes. We have been friends; I think I can say as much as that. I was a friend of Hugo's; she's been a sort of inspiration to me all my life. Especially lately, it has made a different man of me to think of her. I've been a rough sort of fellow—had to be, in some ways, in the fight I've had to put up. I'm not good enough for her; of course I'm not. But who is?"
Colonel Eldridge's face had grown a little softer. "You talk of her in the right sort of way," he said. "Well, I must leave it to her. If she says yes, I shan't say no."
"Thank you," said Fred gratefully. "I'm glad I came to you first of all. It seemed the right thing to do, though it wasn't very easy."
He laughed awkwardly, and, also rather awkwardly, got himself out of the room. When he had left it Colonel Eldridge walked up and down, as his habit was when he was disturbed in his mind. He was very disturbednow, as the frown on his face and his impatient actions testified. Presently he made as if to go out, but turned again irresolutely, and then rang the bell. He asked the maid who answered it whether Mr. Comfrey was still in the house. Yes, he was in the schoolroom, with the young ladies. His reception of that piece of news probably gave the maid material for talk afterwards, though he was not aware of having shown any feeling. Then he went to the morning-room to find his wife.
She was alone there, and he told her of what had happened. She laughed, unconcernedly. "With a pushing young man of that sort," she said, "I thought it would come to a proposal sooner or later. But I didn't think he would be so foolish as to go to you first."
He didn't understand this. "Why foolish?" he asked, with some impatience. "Surely you haven't seen this coming and done nothing to stop it?"
"What was there to stop? We couldn't not have him in the house because he was likely to fall in love with Pamela. Now we needn't have him more than we want to."
"What do you mean? I said I shouldn't refuse, if Pamela wanted him. He wouldn't be my choice, or yours; but if she...."
"If Pamela wanted him! My dear! Wait till he's gone—I shan't ask him to stay to lunch—and ask Pamela if she wants him."
Pamela came into the room at that moment. Colonel Eldridge bent his brows upon her. He couldn't quiteget it out of his head that she must have given encouragement.
"Where is Fred?" asked Mrs. Eldridge.
"In the schoolroom," said Pamela, and went to the bookcase, which she opened.
"He has just been with father," said Mrs. Eldridge; but Colonel Eldridge stopped her. "I don't think that anything ought to be said," he began.
Mrs. Eldridge laughed. "You didn't promise to say nothing, I suppose," she said.
"No; but—"
"He came to father, Pam, to ask if he had any objection to his marrying you, supposingyouhad no objection."
Pamela blushed deeply, but after a glance at her father said calmly: "I hope you told him that you had, Daddy."
Colonel Eldridge, standing in front of the fire, straightened himself, and smiled. "I told him it wasn't the sort of marriage I expected for you," he said, "but it was for you to decide and not me. I say, I didn't mean to discuss it like this, ten minutes afterwards, with him actually in the house."
"Perhaps we had better wait until he has gone," said Mrs. Eldridge. "Were you going back to the schoolroom, Pam?"
"Well, I wasn't," said Pam; "but I can, if you like."
"There!" said Mrs. Eldridge. "Now I think you can go back to your room, dear, and wait a little, without too much anxiety."
Later on there was another short confabulation, the result of which was that Colonel Eldridge wrote a note to Fred to say that he had talked to his daughter, who had told him that it was quite impossible that she should ever come to look upon him in the way he desired. They would be pleased to see him again, on the terms on which he had come to the Hall before, but it would perhaps be as well to let a little time elapse. After which he returned to his easy chair in front of the fire, rather inclined to be puzzled at the suddenness of this new episode, and the celerity with which it had been brought to an end. What Fred thought about it was not made clear, for he did not answer the note, and was not in church on Christmas morning, though he was known to be still at the Vicarage.
All this passed on Tuesday, and on Wednesday, which was Christmas Eve, Norman came.
Norman was in bright spirits, and the whole house responded to them, although Colonel Eldridge, still under the influence of his cold, kept mostly to his room. He was anxious, however, not to give Norman reason to think that he was keeping out of his way, and asked him in for a talk during the afternoon, when he told him how glad he was that he had come, and in such a way as to give the impression that he was thanking him for coming.
"Well, I simply had to, Uncle Edmund," said Norman. "I couldn't have stuck it anywhere else, not even at home. They've got rather a ponderous lot up there this time, and they can do without me all right, though I said I'd go back there the day after Christmas.I think mother would have liked to come too, but of course she's got to play hostess to all the magnates. You wouldn't have thought you could have got so many magnates away from their own turkeys at Christmas time, but the shoot is really awfully good. We had a great day yesterday."
He gave corroborative detail, and they were soon in the midst of a talk on sport, in which Colonel Eldridge took his part almost with enthusiasm. Nothing was said about the estrangement, but what was perfectly clear was that neither Lady Eldridge nor Norman considered it as having altered anything of their affection for the family at the Hall. No change, however, seemed to be indicated in the attitude of Lord Eldridge. Norman did not eschew mention of him, when his name would naturally have come into the conversation, but there was nothing to show that he had been sent on an errand of reconciliation.
Norman hastened to assure Pamela, in answer to inquiries, that his joyous state of mind was not due to his having at last found the right girl in the Irish country house. "No," he said. "There were some bright spirits among them, but not one that I could have gone through life with. I am far more exacting than I was. I told you about Donna Clara, didn't I?"
"I don't think so. At least I don't remember her name for the moment. Could you afford to give me a card index for a Christmas present? I was reading an advertisement the other day, and I think it is just the thing I want, to be able to refer to any of them at a moment's notice."
Norman laughed freely. "That's jolly good, Pam," he said. "Jolly good. If I could only find somebody who could say that sort of thing. Of course she'd have to be as pretty as you too, and you don't find 'em like that in every basket of peaches. Margaret came nearest to you, but—"
"What has become of Margaret? I did think something might happen there, when it had gone on for a fortnight. Or was it only ten days?"
"That's not quite so good, Pam. I saw Margaret last week. We met at a play, and had a word together between the acts. Rather moving, it was. I think we both felt that a chapter in our long-past lives, though closed, would always remain as a tender and delicate memory. In years to come, when she's a duchess on her own, and I'm a minor middle-aged lord, with a chin-beard and a tummy, we shall get rather sentimental with one another. Perhaps we shall fix up a match between my Clarence and her Ermyntrude. But I was going to tell you about Donna Clara. I call her that because her father is a Don of Clare, not because she's Spanish or Portugese, because she isn't. She's a peach; I will say that for her; and dances a treat. But I'm no longer thinking of migrating to Clare College on her account."
"Why not? Is shequitebrainless? You don't seem to mind them having scarcely any, but I suppose it would be an objection if she hadn't got beyond words of one syllable."
"Don't try too hard, Pam. Something good will slip out if you wait for it. So far from being brainless,Donna Clara— But why pursue these futile recriminations? She's the last. I shan't go about looking for it any more. Perhaps I shall live and die a bachelor. I recognized all the symptoms with Donna Clara. I was taken with her. Ididlean out of my window and think about her when I got home; only it was so damn cold that I shut it again directly. Ididtake all the trouble in the world to see her again. But when I did, that was the end of it. Icouldhave gone on, but I didn't. I saw that I should be suffering from an agreeable sort of fever for a few weeks, and then I should recover, and have it all to go through again. Pam dear, it isn't good enough."
"Well, I'm not sorry you've come to that conclusion," said Pam. "It came home to me when the affair with Margaret fizzled out. I think the whole business is rather tiresome. You've got lots of other things to do. I suppose a man can go pottering on like that, playing with his emotions. A girl would be rather a beast if she did it. But even in a man I think it's spoiling something or other. I think you're quite right to give it up, if you really mean to."
Norman showed himself a trifle offended over this. "I don't know that you need take it as solemnly as all that," he said. "We've had larks together about it, but I can keep it to myself, if you'd rather."
Pam's eyes filled with tears, which surprised her as much as they did Norman when he saw them. "Oh, don't let's quarrel, even in fun," she said. "It's all unhappy enough without that." Then she broke down and cried, but dried her eyes immediately, angry withherself. "I've had a horrid thing happen to me," she said. "I didn't mean to tell you about it, but I always have told you everything, almost."
He took her hand. "Dear little Pam," he said. "I know everything is perfectly beastly for you now. I can't do anything about it yet, but you know I hate it as much as you do. I've really come here because of that—at least, you know I should hate not being with you at Christmas. I determined I'd be as merry and bright as possible, but I haven't always felt like it when I've thought about you. If you want to talk over things quietly I'm quite ready."
She gave his hand a squeeze, and withdrew hers. "It isn't about leaving here," she said. "I mind that for poor old Daddy's sake, and it's all part of the general horridness which makes everything different. I suppose I shouldn't mind about this if it weren't for being unhappy about other things."
Then she told him about Fred. "I suppose I did give him some encouragement," she said, "though of course I never meant to." She smiled ruefully. "Perhaps it was that afternoon at Pershore Castle that brought it on me. I was annoyed with you rather, and did it to make you annoyed with me, which you were."
"Oh, yes, I quite understood that," he said. "But why do you let it worry you, Pam dear? You've got rid of the fellow—pretty easily too. You might have had to get rid of him yourself."
"I know. I'm glad I was saved that. I don't know why I feel it as I do, though I've tried to find out. Ican't really blame Fred. Why should I blame him for wanting me? And he didn't even bother me. He went to father."
"And I expect he wishes he hadn't now. I can tell you why you feel it, without looking up any words in a dictionary. He's so far beneath you in every way that it's like a degradation to have him even thinking about you in that way. As for bringing it on—I don't think you could have helped it—a pushing common bounder like that, who wouldn't understand your just being friendly with him. It would have had to come, sooner or later."
"Perhaps you're right, though I don't feel it quite like that. I think I've got myself to blame somewhere. Still, I'm well out of it, and I dare say I shall get over the horrid feeling in time. I hope I shan't have to see him again—not for a long time."
"Of course you'll get over it; and you needn't see him any more, ever—in any way that will matter to you. I wish I could say the same for myself; but the odd thing is that he's got himself in with the governor—in business. He says he's good at it, and a nice enough fellow, who did well in the war. I'm all for treating fellows well who did well in the war, but you do get a bit fed up with some of them, whom you'd never have known but for the old war. I don't suppose Mr. Comfrey would have dared to think about you, before the war. Oh, we've got a lot up against the Kaiser. Let's forget about him, Pam, and forget all about the other bothers, and have a jolly Christmas."
On the afternoon of Christmas Day Norman went out to take the air. There was a cold drizzle of rain, and nobody was inclined to accompany him. He was not sorry to be alone, for he had a good deal to think about, and his thoughts flowed freely as he strode along, buttoned up in his rain coat and rather enjoying the bleak inclemency of the weather, so unlike that of the traditional Christmas. But the Christmas atmosphere was abundantly alive at the Hall, and he carried it with him as he tramped through the mud.
He came back as dusk was falling through the wood at the lower end of the park, and some association of place brought sharply back to his memory the fight he had had with Fred Comfrey down here, years before. He could see Fred and Hugo sitting on the log as he went towards them across the park, and there came to him a return of the feelings with which he had approached them. He came out of the wood at the place where the fallen log had been. It had gone now, but there was Fred, his old-time enemy, standing under a tree, with his eyes fixed upon the Hall, the windows of which were showing their welcoming lights that no longer welcomed him.
He started in surprised affront, as Norman came upon him. It was an awkward meeting, for his reasonfor being there was apparent, and he could not help knowing that it was so to Norman. He hunched his shoulders and turned away in offence, without a greeting. Norman, who had been thinking of him with cherished aversion, had an impulse of pity towards him, and obeyed the impulse instantly, as his custom was. "Merry Christmas!" he said. "I heard you were down here."
It was the first thing that came into his head to say, and was only meant as a disclaimer of enmity. But Fred took it as a jeer, and turned on him, his face flaming with antagonism. "I dare say you did," he said. "Damn you! I say something in confidence, and it's told to everybody at once; and I'm kicked out because of it. A merry Christmas!" There followed an oath directed against Norman, and he turned his back on him again.
Norman's impulsion of pity still held him. He had disliked Fred, in their boyhood, but before their final quarrel there had been times in which they had been companions, without hostility between them. That old contact was present to his mind; and Fred was down now; he couldn't triumph over him. "I didn't mean any offence," he said. "I do know what happened, but there's no offence in that either."
Fred turned on him again. "I'm not good enough for her," he said. "No offence in showing me that in the beastliest sort of way, I suppose! I do the straight thing, and it's immediately used as a weapon against me. Yet Eldridge was ready enough to come to me for help in his blasted money difficulties. If hedoesn't mind telling everybody my affairs I don't mind telling his."
Again he turned away, leaving Norman at a loss. He took a few steps, and threw over his shoulder: "You make her think she's everything to you, and behave as if she was nothing. I'd have given her more than you ever will." Then he went away, leaving Norman with something more to think about, as he walked slowly back across the park in the chilly dusk to where the warmth and light of the house was awaiting him.
The next day he went away, and the Hall settled down again to the quiet life that had been brightened by his coming.
The weather cleared after Christmas, and on the first day on which the roads were dry enough Lord Crowborough came tricycling over to Hayslope Hall, and, in the same state of heat as before and with the same means of allaying it by his side, sat talking to his old friend.
He had heard of the decision to let the Hall, and was full of sympathy. At the same time, he couldn't quite understand it. What did William say about it? Surely—!
Colonel Eldridge cut him short. "There's no enmity now between me and William," he said. "We've practically agreed to go our separate ways, though that has never been put into words. William doesn't come into this, and wouldn't have come into it if we had never fallen out. All he could have done would have been to subsidize me here, and I dare say he wouldhave been quite ready to do it. But of course I couldn't have accepted that in any case."
"No. I can see that, if you put it in that way. But there ought to be a way out, Edmund. He will succeed you here, and I am pretty certain that if you both wanted to you could arrange things."
"Not in any way that wouldn't come round in the long run to my staying here as William's pensioner. The property could be resettled by him and me and Norman agreeing; but there's nothing in it for me beyond my life interest and my wife's jointure. No; I am ready to go now, for some years at least. It's possible that after a time, when I've cleared off certain encumbrances on my income, I might be able to come back. But it isn't time to think of that yet. I shan't be sorry to go, if I can find something suitable to go to. This place has become a burden, and all the pleasure of living in it has departed. The nuisance is that there's no house here for me to go to. The Grange is out of the question, and there's no other house that would do for us without a lot of money spent upon it. I haven't got any money for such purposes."
"It seems hard lines that William should have spoilt the only house in the place that would suit you; and now he doesn't even live in it himself."
"Oh, well; that's done, and there's no good dwelling on it. Things have gone his way and they haven't gone mine. They haven't been going the way of us landowners for a long time, and the war has about finished us. I sometimes wish I'd been born a generation earlier. My father used to grumble sometimes;but look at the difference between those times and these. Oh, no; it's time I cleared out. There's no room in the world that's coming for people like me."
"Oh, my dear fellow, you mustn't talk like that. There's always room in the world for people like you. We shouldn't have won the war without 'em, for one thing."
"It doesn't seem to have done us much good winning the war. Nothing's the same as it was, and it will get worse. However, we needn't talk about that. We shall have to stick it out, whatever's in store for us. I don't suppose I've got more to grumble about than most. If I can let this house well, as I think I can, and find another somewhere, we shall be all right. I suppose the girls will marry in time. Cynthia and I will have enough, for as long as remains to us."
"I think I might find you a house, Edmund. I've been turning it over in my mind since I heard that you wanted something near here. Give me a few days longer. But I want to know—you didn't tell me. WhatdoesWilliam say about your leaving Hayslope?"
"I don't suppose he knows. I haven't told him. I dare say Norman has by this time."
"I see Norman was here for Christmas, wasn't he? He's a nice boy, that. I'm glad it shouldn't have made a difference to him."
"So am I—very glad. Yes; he's a very nice boy. He's like a brother to my girls, and I'm glad they've got him, now their own brother is dead. He'll look after them, if they ever want looking after."
"They're dear girls, all of them, Edmund. You won't have them all with you for very long, I expect. I've had a sort of hope lately that—I don't see why such old friends as we are shouldn't talk over these things—I've a fancy that my boy thinks there's nobody in the world like your Pamela. Well, my wife says it's Pamela; I had a sort of idea myself that it was little Judith. It's one of 'em, or I'll eat my hat. Would that be agreeable to you, if it came off some day?"
Colonel Eldridge laughed. "It would be very agreeable to me," he said. "I've had things put to me that weren't so agreeable. Fathers don't seem to have much of a say in these matters nowadays. But, thank goodness, my girls weren't old enough to run all those risks of war-time. Yes, John, if that arrangement would suit you, it would certainly suit me. I've been wondering, quite lately what sort of marriage Pamela would make—realizing that she was old enough to get married, which I suppose doesn't come into a father's head about his eldest girl until it's put there."
"No; or with a son either. But Jim is my only one, and I should like him to marry early, and see my grandson growing up, if I'm spared so long. I shouldn't care for my brother Alfred's boys to come into the succession. However, that's a long way ahead yet. Jim's a steady fellow now, and inclined to take his life seriously—more seriously, perhaps, than we did when we were young fellows; but it's not a bad thing either. What I mean is that I think it would be a good thing for him to marry, and with such a wife as your Pamela—well,he'd be a very lucky fellow, and she'd get him on in the world. There's still something to do for a man in the position he'll have to fill, and the right sort of wife would help him no end."
When Lord Crowborough had pedalled himself away, Colonel Eldridge went back to his room, and sat there in front of the fire, with pleasanter thoughts to keep him company than he had had for some time. The episode with Fred Comfrey had made its mark upon him, though it had come and gone so quickly that he had suffered little distress because of it. He could hardly help thinking of himself as having come down in the world, since he was no longer able to support the modest dignity that had been his as the head of an old-established family living in the large house in the middle of his acres in which his fathers had lived before him. Fred Comfrey's proposal had seemed to mark that descent, for it had not been from among men such as he that the daughters of the house had taken their husbands. Now this so different proposal wiped out the effect of that one. If only Pamela...!
When he told his wife about it, he found that it was no new idea to her. "I didn't want to talk about it," she said, "because one is naturally careful about not appearing to rush at a marriage of that sort. There will be plenty of people to say that we have been angling for it—or that I have—if it does happen. I do think that there's no doubt about Jim. In fact, I shouldn't be in the least surprised if he hadn't put it to Pam already."
"What—do you mean to say that they have come to an understanding?"
"I'm afraid not. If he has asked her, she has refused him. I don't know, because she has said nothing to me; but one has a sort of instinct with one's own daughters. Perhaps it's more likely that she won't give him an answer yet. They are as good friends as ever. I don't think he would come here in the way he does if she had refused him definitely."
This rather dashed him. "Crowborough said something about Judith," he said. "He'd had an idea that she was the attraction; but her ladyship seems to have chased that idea out of his head."
Mrs. Eldridge laughed, and said: "For once I agree with her. I was inclined to think it was Judith at one time myself, though I'd hardly come to think of her as more than a child. They get on splendidly together, and really I think she'd be more suited to him than Pam. However, there's no good thinking of that, for it is Pam, and there's no doubt about it. Darling Pam! I do wish she would come round to it. She is taking our present troubles hardly, and it would be good for her to be lifted out of them. Perhaps she will, in time. But there's no good in pressing her; we must just leave it."
"Oh, pressing her! Good heavens, no! I shouldn't like her to marry him for the reasons that would appeal to us, either. I believe in a love match, for everybody; but there ought to be something behind it too."
Mrs. Eldridge leant over his chair and kissed him onthe forehead. "We've never regretted our love match, have we?" she said.
He reached up and took her hand in his. "We hardly thought it was going to bring us to this pass towards the close of our lives," he said. "But it won't part us, so it's not so bad. Crowborough said he might be able to find a house for us. There are several nice little places on his property. If one of them fell vacant, I could carry on here from it. Otherwise, I don't see anything for it but to put in an agent, and only come down now and then. I think now we've made up our minds, the worst is over. I wish William had written, though. He couldn't do anything to help us, perhaps; but I should have thought it must have meant something to him—our having to clear out. Norman must have told him, and there would have been time to hear from him by now."
"If there's nothing he could do," she said, "perhaps it's as well that he should leave it alone. We don't want the contrast between us made plainer than it is."
With that she left him. She could not trust herself to talk with him about his brother, against whom her anger was hot within her. She knew with what a weight the estrangement was lying upon him now; that the irritation he had felt against William had all disappeared; and that he was inclined to blame himself for all that had happened, to the justification of the man who was pursuing his eager successful course without an apparent thought of the troubles from which he had cut himself loose. She had hoped something from William until now. Looking back upon thewhole course of the quarrel, she did recognize that he had made efforts to end it, and shown here and there the generosity which had always been a mark of his character. But, after all, his generosity had been easy to exercise. They had all lived in close contact for years, and he had got as good as he had given, in the affection which had prompted his generosity. Now that had fallen into the second place with him; he was in pursuit of associations other than the ties of family, and it was to further them that his openhandedness would be used. What did they matter to him at Hayslope? He had run away from the place in which so many of his interests had been bound up, rather than face the awkwardness of a situation which he could have ended at any time by a little patience and consideration. Even their leaving it was nothing to him now. Four days had gone by since he must have been told of it. He was not away, for Norman had written to Pam only the day before, and mentioned him. It must be accepted now that he didn't care. It would be as well that her husband should come to recognize that, and then he would cease longing for what was over and done with, and rely only upon those who loved him so dearly for his solace in life.
But she couldn't hasten the time. He must be made sadder yet before he could put away his sadness, and accept the new conditions.
She talked to Pamela that night. No pressure was to be put on her, she had said. She put all the pressure of which she was capable, being very careful to disguise the fact that she was putting any pressureat all. She loved Pamela more than her other girls; she was making more and more of a companion of her; she would hate giving her up to the best of husbands. But to please her own husband, to get for him, something that would lift from him some of the weight under which he was drooping, she would have pushed her daughter into a marriage with less prospects of happiness in it than this held out. She was ruthless with her, while talking to her with a sort of cooing tenderness and sympathy, and searching among half confessions and confidences for the point upon which she could concentrate to move her. Her father was mentioned but rarely. There was no plea to sacrifice herself for his sake. But it was inherent in everything that she said that submission on Pamela's part would bring something to him that nothing else could in these shadowed days. She did not place before her any of the advantages that would accrue to her from a marriage that would bring her wealth and station. She mentioned them only to make light of them.Theyknew, she and Pamela, that those were not the best things in life, though one was better off with them than without them. What were the best things? They seemed to be summed up in Horsham, according to her opinion, though she did not overpraise him.
No disagreement was possible with anything that she said. She put herself apparently into complete accord with Pamela, and made it difficult for her so much as to say that she didn't love Horsham; for that would have been the answer to an invitation that was never made, in so many words. The respect and evenaffection that Pamela was made to acknowledge as representing her feelings towards Horsham were taken as the most satisfactory with which to start upon married life. That was apparently agreed on all hands, and was hardly worth discussing. The question of "falling in love" was lightly touched upon. It sometimes happened before marriage, sometimes afterwards. The marriages that began with youthful raptures didn't always turn out the most satisfactory. It seemed to be indicated that there was something almost indelicate in a girl's looking out for those raptures; she would have no fear of such a desire in a daughter of hers.
They ended their long talk under the supposition that Pamela wouldn't marry for years to come, and discussed the future hopefully. It would be splendid if Lord Crowborough did find them a nice house, near enough to Hayslope for father to be able to look after things from there. They could furnish a house of three or four sitting-rooms and eight or ten bedrooms beautifully from the Hall, and leave quite enough behind them. They could have a lovely garden, and there would probably be enough land for a little farmery, in which they would all interest themselves. "I'm sure we should be much happier than we are here now," Mrs. Eldridge said. "I think even father has come to see that, and if he gets rid of his worries we shall have him with us for many years to come, just as he used to be. He is more cheerful now than he has been for a long time, though he isn't well. I do think there's a brighter time coming for us at last."
Miss Baldwin came back to Hayslope after the Christmas holidays not without hopes of developments having taken place during her absence, which would introduce the new chapter she was longing for. Her return after holidays was always greeted with welcoming chatter by Alice and Isabelle, who were of an age when even the arrival of a governess to whom they were not greatly attached was something of an excitement. Miss Baldwin never seemed to take much interest in the news they poured out to her, and she asked very few questions; but she had gathered a good deal by the time her charges were in bed and her time was her own to think it over.
The coming move was the most important piece of news. The excitement of the children over any change was enough in this instance at least to balance their regrets at leaving Hayslope. It was not quite settled yet, but it was almost certain that they were going some time in the spring to live at that dear old farmhouse which you passed on the road to Pershore, about half a mile before you came to the Castle. Miss Baldwin remembered it quite well, and the news gave her rather a shock, though the children seemed to be delighted with the idea. It was an old stone-built house standing very near the road, with its farmstead adjoiningit—hardly a gentleman's residence, in her opinion, and a great come down from Hayslope Hall. But it was the farm buildings, which would go with it, that made it attractive in the eyes of Alice and Isabelle. And they were to have ponies. That would have made up for more than they would actually lose by the move. Lord Crowborough was going to do a good deal to the house before they went to it. It was bigger than it looked from the outside, and there was a lovely great attic running the whole length of the house where they would be able to play.
So the children were satisfied, and Miss Baldwin had gathered from the talk at supper that their elders thought themselves fortunate in finding such a house for themselves. There was talk of panelled rooms and a fine oak staircase, and of restorations that were to be made to bring it back to the state from which it had somewhat fallen. It was a house of the same quality as Town Farm at Hayslope. Colonel Eldridge's chief regret seemed to be that he could not restore his own house in the same way, instead of renting one from somebody else.
To Miss Baldwin's observant eyes, Colonel Eldridge seemed to have aged since she had last seen him. He had been unwell, and was not quite himself yet, though he wouldn't acknowledge it. But the change in him didn't come from that. He was depressed and silent, and made fewer efforts to conceal his mood before his family than was his custom. Miss Baldwin wondered whether his family knew everything that was behind this somewhat startling change in his life. Was hehiding anything from them? Was he a secret gambler, with a chapter to come in which his horses would be led away from the door, and his wife would lean over a ruined man with bent head and nervous fingers clutching a pack of cards? But she rejected the idea. Colonel Eldridge only had one horse, and an old pony, and he could hardly be induced to make a four at family Bridge, with stakes of threepence a hundred. The estrangement from his brother still continued; she had gathered that. There was something there to wonder about, perhaps a recently discovered will, perhaps the change of an heir at birth. Time would show. There was not enough yet to alter the interest of a love story into one of mystery.
She divined, with some special sense that she had, that Fred Comfrey was a definitely rejected suitor; though the children had hardly mentioned his name and the others not at all. But it could not have been that which made Pamela almost as silent and sad-looking as her father, in spite of her efforts to behave with her usual brightness, and especially so to him. It was only at odd moments that Miss Baldwin caught the look on her face which told her so much; and the silence was for when her father and mother were not there.
What was it then that was troubling her? Miss Baldwin formed many conjectures, but recognized that she must wait for further material in order to set her thoughts to one of them.
The occasion that she wanted came two days after she had returned to Hayslope. Lord Horsham cameover to lunch, and stayed for the afternoon. He was going back to Oxford the next day.
Pamela's spirits had come back to her. She laughed and chattered in her old way. Lord Horsham had never had such a reception from her in Miss Baldwin's recollection, though all of them were brought into it, and there was no time that Miss Baldwin knew of when she was alone with him during that lively afternoon. When he had gone, she relapsed into her listless mood, which was even more marked than it had been before.
So now Miss Baldwin knew. Pamela loved Lord Horsham, and any separation from him lay heavy upon her spirits. She wondered what had brought the change, for Pamela had certainly not been in love with him a month ago. As for him, there was no doubt about it. He was head over ears, and showed it plainly. It could not be long now before that chapter, and with it the whole story, was satisfactorily closed.
Colonel Eldridge had a great deal of estate work to do now, which had fallen somewhat into arrears during the days he had been laid up. Besides hours spent in his office, where there was now only a clerk to help him, he had to be out constantly, and in all weathers. Mrs. Eldridge tried to dissuade him from going about so much, but he was not a man who would respond to such dissuasion, with the result that he caught another bad cold and had to take to his bed. There she had him to some extent at her mercy, but she could not prevent him worrying himself over what ought to have been done, but couldn't be done, or from busying himselfwith papers, when he ought to have been lying still doing nothing.
He began to mend on the third day, and proposed to get up on the next. She took up his breakfast herself, and his letters, and then went down to her own. When she went up again, he was lying still, with very little breakfast eaten and half his letters unopened. She persuaded him to eat a little more, and he talked to her for a time, and then said he should like a message sent over to ask Lord Crowborough to come and see him. He thought he would go to sleep in the meantime; there wouldn't be much to do this morning; better take full advantage of his last day in bed. He smiled at her and said that she was not to come bothering him until Lord Crowborough came. He wanted to see him about something particularly. Perhaps she'd better send the car for him, and a note. No, he would write the note himself. She was to go down and order the car, while he wrote it.
An hour or so later Lord Crowborough was ushered into his room, with a face of concern. This was apparently on account of Colonel Eldridge's illness, for he was quite cheerful with Mrs. Eldridge until she left them, with instructions not to interrupt their confabulation, which might take some time. But when the door had been shut behind her his face was more concerned than ever as he came to the bedside, and said: "You've had some bad news, Edmund. I'm very sorry to hear that. And you're not in a fit state for it, either. I can see that."
Colonel Eldridge handed him a letter. "You're theonly man, I suppose, who knows all about it," he said. "Is it true?"
Lord Crowborough read the letter through, with pursing of the lips, and a deepening frown. Colonel Eldridge watched his face anxiously for a time, and then turned his eyes away, and lay quite still until he had finished.
Lord Crowborough glanced at him, when he had come to the end, and waited a moment before speaking. Then he folded the letter and said: "Yes, Edmund, it's true, in all essentials; but what a wicked thing to send it to you! The woman must be mad."
Colonel Eldridge roused himself. "Oh, you see what she says. It has been lying on her conscience.... Spiritualism, and all that.... She wants excitement, of course. We needn't bother about her; she's had the money, thank goodness. She can't do anything more, except put it about, which I dare say she will do, though she swears she won't. It's you I'm thinking of, John. I quarrelled with you for saying it; I behaved badly to you. I...."
Lord Crowborough lifted hands of deprecation. "Oh, my dear Edmund; my dear fellow! I ought not to have taken the line I did about it. I regretted it very much afterwards, when the poor boy was killed. Don't think anything more about that. And don't let it affect you towards his memory. He'd gone wrong; yes, more than you knew; but he made up for it in the end. I've thought kindly of him, you know, for a long time past, and I knew it all the time. Perhaps it would have been better if you had known it atthe first. It's a blow, coming now. But nothing is changed by it. You must put it aside. You will, in time. It's all forgiven."
There was silence for a time. Then Colonel Eldridge said: "You're kind and good about it, John. I knew you would be, when I sent for you. And you've been kind all along. I know now that my son—cheated—yours out of a large sum of money, besides pushing him into something that he'd never have taken up, if he had been left to himself. I know Horsham well enough to say that; and my son was an older man, who ought to have looked after him—coming into the Regiment as a boy—the son of one of my oldest friends. It was very bad. I can't quite bring my mind to it. But the first thing to be done is to arrange for the payment—"
Lord Crowborough had tried to break in once or twice, and now did so decisively. "My dear Edmund, the money was paid. William knew, and he insisted on doing it. I couldn't refuse. Whatever I might have done, if I'd been left to myself, I don't deserve the credit of that. There's nothing more to be done there."
"William paid, you say?"
"Yes. Fortunately I told him all about it—you knew that, didn't you? It was when I was still very angry, and had let out to you what I did, that you took such exception to. I hope I should have done afterwards what I did do, and draw back from what I had said, so as to keep the knowledge of it from you. But it was William who showed me that it was the rightthing to do, and almost directly afterwards the poor boy was killed, and then I can tell you I was very glad that I hadn't pressed it with you. William saw it at once. He made me take a cheque for the—for the loss, then and there, and promise never to mention it again, even to him. I've wished lately...."
He broke off. "You've wished lately that I'd known that," said Colonel Eldridge quietly. "So do I. One doesn't quarrel with men who treat one like that."
Lord Crowborough didn't quite understand him. "I don't think you need consider it as an extra obligation," he said. "I know it was over and done with, for William, when he wrote his cheque, and made me promise to say nothing about it. I've talked to him since, as you know, and he was extremely irritated against you—no sense in pretending he wasn't—butthatnever came up. I'm sure he's never grudged it, whatever has happened since."
"I wasn't thinking about the money. I've thought too much about William's money, and talked too much about it, to you among others. His money made it easy for him, perhaps, to pay what had to be paid; but it had nothing to do with his taking pains to keep me from knowledge of my son's disgrace."
Lord Crowborough brightened. "Oh, I'm so glad you've said that, Edmund," he said. "You've both misunderstood each other, and you've drifted apart. My dear fellow, if this brings you together again— Oh, I shall be so glad of that."
Again there was silence for a time. Then Colonel Eldridge said: "Horsham knows, I suppose. He andthis—this woman's son joined together, didn't they? It was plain to all of them."
Lord Crowborough had forgotten for the moment what a shock the certain knowledge of his son's disgrace must have been to him, and set himself to remove the effects of it from his mind. Colonel Eldridge accepted what he said, listlessly, but it was evident that no words could heal the wound that had been dealt him. Only time could do that. Even the knowledge of his brother's action, which had changed the current of his thoughts for a time seemed to have brought him only temporary relief. He seemed hardly interested in it now. There was an air of hopeless depression on him that Lord Crowborough was quite unable to remove.
He roused himself to agree upon what steps to take. There was little that could be done. Lord Crowborough himself answered the letter then and there. He wrote on behalf of his friend, who was ill. His own son had been concerned in the affair about which Mrs. Barrett had written to Colonel Eldridge, and all the facts were known to him. Until now they had not been known to Colonel Eldridge. He would not pretend that he understood the motives which had led her to deliver such a blow to a man who had lost his only son, and thus immeasurably increase his grief. He would only beg of her to let the story go no farther.
He directed and closed the letter without offering to show it to Colonel Eldridge, who made no request that he should do so. Then he burnt the letter that had worked such mischief, and soon afterwards he wentaway, very disturbed in his mind at what had taken place, and what its effects might be.
Colonel Eldridge lay in bed all that day, doing nothing, and not wishing to talk. The next day he got up, and went about his business as usual, though Mrs. Eldridge begged him to stay in the house.
It was a wild night of wind and rain. Mrs. Eldridge and Pamela sat in the morning-room, waiting. Every now and then Mrs. Eldridge would go upstairs, and creep quietly into her husband's room, to see if he was still asleep. Then she would come down again, and they would sit still, talking very little, while the big clock in the corner ticked on, and the gusts of rain blew against the window-panes.
Colonel Eldridge had come in the evening before, shivering, and had gone to bed. In the morning his temperature was high, but he said he felt better, and refused to have a doctor sent for. Mrs. Eldridge, however, took that matter into her own hands, and sent for one, who came towards the end of the morning. He took a grave view of the case, and feared pneumonia. He would come again in the evening, and bring a nurse with him. It might be late before he came. There was a lot of illness about, and nurses were difficult to get.
There was no telephone at the Hall, but there was one at the Grange. Pamela and Judith had spent most of the afternoon there. At last the doctor had telephoned that a nurse was coming down from London by the last train. He would meet her and bring her himself.
The train arrived at a quarter past eleven, and it was half an hour's motor-run to the Hall. On such a night as this it might take longer.
The time crept on. Soon after half-past eleven Pamela sprang up from her chair. "I'm sure I heard a motor," she said, and ran to the window.
"It's too early yet," Mrs. Eldridge said; but Pamela had drawn back the curtains. The strong headlights of a big car were already swinging round to the hall door.
They went out, and Mrs. Eldridge opened the door, as the bell rang. It was Lord Eldridge who was standing there, already unfastening his heavy fur coat.
He slipped it off as he came in. He was in his evening clothes. "How is he?" he asked, without any other greeting. "Has the nurse come yet?"
Many emotions crossed Mrs. Eldridge's mind, but the chief of them, in spite of her disappointment, and the resentment she had nurtured against him, was relief at his appearance; for it seemed to her that if anything ought to be done, he could do it.
When he heard of the nurse expected, he considered, watch in hand, whether it would be worth while to motor back in his fast car towards the station, but decided against it. In a few minutes the doctor and the nurse would be coming. He went into the morning-room with Pamela, while Mrs. Eldridge went upstairs again.
"I only got your message just before nine o'clock," he said. "They didn't know where to find me."
She stood before him, looking up into his face. "Ihaven't told mother I tried to get you," she said, "in case you couldn't come. I knew you would if you could, Uncle Bill."'
"Oh, my dear, of course. Poor dear fellow! But he'll get over it. We'll pull him round between us."
There was such an air of energy and resource about him that it seemed as if he could do more than a nurse or a doctor. He was wiping his face, which was red, and wet with the rain. He told her hurriedly that he had come up from Suffolk only that afternoon, and had gone to his club for the night. He had dined out, and her message had passed to and fro until it had found him, when he had come straight away. "If I'd only gone home, as I might have done," he said, "I should have been here hours ago, and might have brought a nurse down with me."
He put his arm round her as she bent her head to hide her tears. "There, there, my dear!" he said consolingly. "Don't worry. It will be all right now."
She dried her eyes. "I don't want mother to see me upset," she said; "but I've been so frightened. Father has hardly ever been ill, until lately. He has been so worried and unhappy, I suppose he couldn't throw it off. I'm sure it will be the best thing for him that you have come at once, like this."
A shade passed over his face. "I'd have come before if I'd thought he would want me," he said. "It's been an unhappy business, but it's all over now. Itshallbe all over. I've taken offence too readily. I won't take offence at anything now."
"I'm sure there'll be nothing to take offence at," she said, a little stiffly. "When you see him, you'll only be sorry for him."
Mrs. Eldridge came in at that moment. "He's awake," she said. "He had heard the car and I had to tell him it was you who had come, William. He wants to see you. I don't know—"
"If he wants it!" he said, preparing to go. "I shan't upset him, Cynthia. And the doctor ought to be here directly."
She took him upstairs. "He's very ill," she said, in a colourless voice. "I know he is, though he says he isn't. I'm sure he mustn't be excited. But I had to tell him you were here, and he would see you at once."
"I shan't excite him," he said shortly.
They went into the room. Colonel Eldridge was lying in his bed in a corner of the room, with a shaded reading-lamp by his side. He hardly looked ill, and he greeted his brother in his ordinary voice. "Well, Bill, I'm glad you've come, though it's a beastly night to get you out. You didn't walk through the wood, did you?"
His brother understood at once that he was light-headed. "No, old boy," he said, taking his hand in his. "I came in the car. I thought I must look in and see how you were. You'll have the doctor here in a minute. I'll keep you company till he comes."
He sat down by the bed, while Mrs. Eldridge stood, not knowing what to do. "You can leave me and Bill for a bit," her husband said. "I want to talk to him about that four acre field at Barton's Close. I don'tthink it's much good for pasture where it is. I thought he might like to take it into his garden. Just see if you can find the big estate map in my room."
She went out slowly. "That's a good idea, Edmund," William said in a quiet voice. "We can talk it over when you're better. I shouldn't think about it now, if I were you. Let me make you a bit more comfortable."
He rearranged the bedclothes, which his brother had thrown off, talking in a soothing voice as he did so. Colonel Eldridge was in a high fever. He thought it was his father who was with him, and said: "William didn't want to get into the punt. It was me who made him."
What strange things come to the surface of the mind when it is no longer under control! Years ago, when they were children, they had been upset from a shooting punt, into which they had been forbidden to go. It was one of countless such pranks that had been forgotten, or at least never brought to memory. It came to William now that his brother had always taken blame on himself for any of them that had turned out unfortunately, and touched him acutely. It was his elder brother who was lying there, until lately the person most looked up to in all his world. His heart was constricted with a poignant emotion, and his voice trembled as he said words that would calm the rapid flow of his speech, now becoming more incoherent. Oh, if only they could pull him through this, he would never allow himself again to treat him as anything but the elder brother, whom he could uphold, but must notgainsay. What would it matter if he was sometimes unreasonable? There was no one else in the world to whom it was so worth while to give in; no one who carried with him that sense of rightful authority, even of protection. He had been borne down by his troubles. Were any of them his brother's making?
The doctor and the nurse came in. William was sent out of the room at once.
By the next day they seemed to have settled down to the struggle for a life, as if nothing else in the world mattered. Lord Eldridge, after a few hours' sleep, had motored back to London, to find and bring down another nurse. He had sent for his wife to come to the Grange, and set in hand all arrangements for their staying there, and for the carrying on of such of his work as could not be left undone. He was back at the Hall before mid-day, looking as if he had been doing nothing out of the usual run, but with a deep gravity underlying his capable confidence-bearing demeanour. His contact with Mrs. Eldridge was almost impersonal. She relied on him, and talked with him about what was to be done without any sense of awkwardness. Her resentments were not solved; they were just put aside. But for the girls the estrangement was over and done with. They clung to his authority and resource, and to his warm supporting affection, which he showed towards them so abundantly.
Soon after he had returned, Mrs. Eldridge came to him and said that her husband wanted to see him. He was quite himself now. The nurse had said that he had better have his way, but Lord Eldridge must be carefulnot to excite him, and must not stop in the room long.
The weight of past trouble was upon Mrs. Eldridge now. She hesitated and faltered, and it was plain that she disliked being the bearer of this message.
"My dear Cynthia," he said, "if he wants to see me, it is because he wants our dispute to be put an end to, once for all. I want that too, and you can trust me to think of nothing but to set his mind at rest. Don't think of me as an enemy any longer."
She made no reply, but led him up to the room.
His brother's eyes were upon him, as he went in, with an expression that was sorrowful, but also welcoming. "Well, William," he said, in a low but audible voice, "it does me good to see you here. I seem to be worse than I thought I was, but we can have a little chat. It was good of you to come, after all that has happened."
"My dear old fellow, don't let's talk about what has happened. I've been very much to blame; but you have always had a lot to put up with in my ways of doing things. Yet we've been friends all our lives, and nothing is ever going to part us again."
He had taken his hand, and given it a gentle pressure. His brother held it in his for an appreciable time, and then grasped it with a meaning that was plain enough without further words. William sat down by his side, with a sensation of choking in his throat. Their quarrel was at an end.
"There's a lot to settle," Colonel Eldridge said. "I may not be fit to talk to you again. If I don't getover this, you'll look after Cynthia and the children. They'll have enough, but I've always directed all our affairs; she'll be lost at first."
William forced himself with a great effort to speak naturally and evenly. "You'll get over it, my dear old fellow," he said confidently; "but I agree that it's best to be prepared. We've been like one family, until lately, and that's what we are again now. You were quite right in saying that I had spoilt the Grange for them, or I'd have looked after them there. They shall stay here, dear Edmund. The old place will be more like it has always been with them in it, and as I like it to be, than with us living in it. I'm committed to another sort of life now, and it's too late to go back. But we shall be down here often, in the old way. They'll have us to depend upon, in whatever they can't do for themselves."